The Catalyst
by Val-Creative
Summary: Merlin will never die. Time has withered him to a standoffish, hollow mimicry of what he has once been. The boy who wore his smiles with pride and genuine feeling. The worst part is he never truly lives, not until this, until destiny spits Arthur Pendragon back out. /Modern Era. Post-Series/Series 5.
1. Chapter 1

**.**

**.**

Merlin decides there was no hope left for him. None at all.

Flower shops didn't open until at least 8 o'clock in the morning on the weekdays, and especially not in such a remote area.

Glastonbury has two shops within easy walking distance on High Street: _Abundiflora_ and _Enchanted Florals Ltd_. But as it is, Merlin's wristwatch barely reads ten minutes to 6 o'clock, and petty crime by theft doesn't particularly suit him.

His birthday isn't supposed to be a nerve-wrecking affair.

**.**

**.**

The woods fall unnaturally silent as Merlin weaves his path deeper and deeper in.

Surroundings grow thick with creeping, pale fog, along with the tree-canopy overhead. A scent of rain to come.

The local farming area could use the rain, he considers. The grass beneath his feet appears yellowed. The soil too dry this late season. Merlin supposes if need be, he could meddle in natural affairs. His magic could allow the land to prosper abundantly—_no_, Merlin knows that much.

But the villagers, farmers and landowners, and townsfolk are content with their living and what they could reap. (What good is meddling where he is not needed?…)

Normally, any journey this far warrants Merlin to bring his satchel for collecting plants and herbs, but that isn't what he's seeking.

It would not be today.

Not _today_ of all days.

He nears the lake. Knows the path to and from like the back of his hand. Today is the reason Merlin returns. Another day on the yearly calendar of the day of his birth. He has no exact record of how many days transpired since… _Camelot's ruin_—how many public holidays, how many Sundays or how many birthdays.

It seems silly to try and remember them all. Merlin isn't certain if today is even the accurate date.

But he hadn't always been so alone.

Merlin gained friends as those centuries went on. He longed for company, someone to hear him, acknowledge his existence. But then, eventually they too passed. Leaving him with the faint, warm glow of happier memories and another dull ache to settle in his heart. To be immortal was a _curse_, as he learned—an ugly, and a _lonely_ one.

There's a clearing ahead out of the woods as he goes downhill, his cheeks flushing with the sting of cold, and his eyes alert despite the lack of visibility.

No point bothering with an aging spell to disguise himself. No soul likely would meet him.

Begrudgingly, Merlin wordlessly summons a fistful of white lilies into his hand, huffing out a breath. It doesn't feel right. The downy sensation of the flowers in his hand doesn't feel _genuine_.

"Cheers," he mumbles, shuffling in place, but reluctant to move forward.

Going forward is all he's ever done, and it's been the only choice. And what has that gained him?

Like tunneling, Merlin's ears pick out loud splashing in the distance. For all he knows, it's a person swimming frantically in the waters. Who—_honestly_.

Who would be daft enough to brave the icy lake at this time? So _early_ before the heat of the sun touches it.

Keeping his guard up, Merlin waits soundless and a good distance on the hill, until someone does manage to drag themselves onto the bank, seemingly winded and collapsing. The longer he does wait, the more it feels like a dream. (Impossible. He _can't_ dream.)

The tattered, red cape. Broken chair-mail. Strands of blond hair darkened and plastered down.

Merlin's shoulders tighten.

"… no," rolls off his lips, softly, nearly pleading.

The image stays, living as the man-shaped figure hauls himself on his feet, with damp, leather gloves scrambling at tree bark, towards the northeast end of further woods.

Merlin knocks the side of his face harshly with a palm.

"No, I'm awake," he whispers, teeth gritting, forcing his eyes shut. "I'm _bloody_ awake! I'm—_awake_!"

Blue eyes reopen, wider than before, but the figure does not melt away from existence.

Reality sinks in, galloping his heart in the confines of his throat.

"I'm awake," Merlin repeats, hollowly.

He waited. For so long.

He waited and waited and relied on nothing but a gossamer-thin string of desperate, grieving hope in Kilgharrah's words. Had it been so simple? Pick a day at random to visit where Arthur's last moments had been, and…?

The fistful of pure white lilies releases from Merlin's trembling hand, crushing under his wool-lined boots as he takes the first, few uncertain steps forward. Before losing sight of what eerily resembles Arthur—but it _COULDN'T_ be that simple, could it—vanishing from the clearing.

The next steps carrying Merlin become a running start.

**.**

**.**

Not far now.

Merlin's legs take him on, pounding his feet across the dewy, slippery grass and then patches of dirt and twigs, but his mind feels as if it hazes.

Everything's slowing down as the ashes and beeches, and the greenery underbrush blur on all sides of him. He waited. But for _this_—chasing a long-lost memory, a colourful and familiar spark in the grey, fog-dull scenery? His exhales ghost out of him, and Merlin's chest roars hot.

Up ahead, the man-shaped figure appearing sodden to the bone but steadier, makes a jerking left and dives into the thicket.

Merlin follows him, and would follow Camelot's king to the very end of time and humanity itself. He braces himself in a wince. The back of Merlin's head impacts a tree trunk, as a chain-mail arm pins him by the throat. He flails in place.

His attacker presses in without mercy, a knee to Merlin's thigh.

A growl emits, ready to be voiced before everyone stills.

"… _Merlin_?"

His name a single exhale, Arthur's brow furrowing in confusion and his tone a mix of it all, including confusion and _relief_. The arm covered in wet, cold metal to Merlin's neck lessens its callous intent. Allowing him another large gulp for air. The run-to and being pitched forward already knocked the wind out of him.

But the close-up of Arthur's face, how still firm and unaged, double the sensation.

His eyes never break their awed, terrified gaze on Arthur. _Arthur_.

Merlin's lips draw apart.

"… Yeh?"

(Of all the things to come out of his mouth, of all things Merlin thought he might get the chance to say. Instead, he sounds like a clueless twit. Fantastic.)

Arthur swallows—_it's him, he can feel it, his magic feels it_—and stops the crushing pressure from his arm resting on Merlin's throat.

He gives Merlin a pointed look with both eyebrows raised.

"Are you going to keep staring at me, or are you going to explain what is happening?" he asks.

_Or maybe you could explain it to ME?_

"I wouldn't know where to begin," Merlin says, flinching lightly at his own words rushing out and too honest.

He takes a brief pause to rake his gaze over what he can of his old friend, tilting his head ever-so-slightly until Merlin's chin bumps down on Arthur's forearm. The lake water has a murky smell, and it clings to Arthur. Not the smell of death, of rot. The smell of a body that had been suspended lifeless in the watery depths for hundreds of years.

Dark blood crusted over the fatal wound in Arthur's side a long time ago. Arthur's hot blood tacking to Merlin's bare hands.

Now the wound's entrance looks dulled and faded to brown.

But was it… still there?

He watches Arthur blink away a droplet of water.

"How do you feel?" Merlin asks. His tongue feeling wooden and dry in his mouth.

"Wet," Arthur deadpans.

The casual '_obviously, Merlin_' tone was so familiar and yet impossibly strange in his ears. He shakes his head.

"I feel fine… _why_ do I feel fine, Merlin?"

Above all else, Merlin knows that lying results in future consequences. He has been keeping the truth about being born a warlock, about their destiny from Arthur for so long … it should be a relief now. That unpredictable and fragile era of their friendship can end.

But if Arthur remembers everything, including Merlin's confession… and didn't accept it…

"_Magic_—"

The word cracks, whether from emotion or the wrecked quality of his sore throat. Merlin's hand reaches up, folding to Arthur's wrist and gently pulling him away. "I think you… it may have brought you back," Merlin explains quietly, gathering the courage to dare and peer at Arthur's expression and the slow nod.

The confusion ever more present, but it's only that.

Not hatred, not fear, not disgust. He doesn't recoil at Merlin's clutch on him. A bit of weight on Merlin's shoulders lift for a blessed moment.

"Right," Arthur says, heedfully. "Magic…"

Unconsciously, Merlin's fingers round Arthur's wrist tighten to a squeeze.

"And _why_, might I ask, did magic bring me back in a lake?"

"I put you there," Merlin says, frowning. "In a boat, after you had…" His bottom lip worries under his teeth, like a nervous tic. "I don't know the real answer. I wish I did," he confesses. Merlin pushes off the tree, crowding their space enough to signal his companion to back away a few paces.

"Arthur, I _need_ you to tell me everything you remember."

The direct command is enough for Arthur to mimic the frown. His arms rise to cross against his chest.

"I remember it all, Merlin," he says, simply.

Something akin to gratitude softens Arthur's features, even if it had been mere seconds. Merlin isn't sure how his head isn't spinning wildly with the realization that Arthur knows everything from those final days in his life. He _knows_ and appears fairly unimpressed.

As if Arthur can accept the facts so quickly and so shortly after conquering death.

It wouldn't be for long, Merlin _understands_ this. There are going to be questions. If Arthur isn't voicing his troubles in his ex-manservant having been a great sorcerer in the era he knew him, then he would definitely be unnerved about being dropped off from Avalon, or wherever, into the 21st century.

But right now, the man who is and forever would be Camelot's legendary king—who had meant _everything_ to Merlin—stood in front of him, tall in the early morning chill. Looking like a bit of a drowned rat covered in armour, in his opinion.

A _beautiful_ one, and the best one Merlin has ever laid eyes on.

"Is it truly important to recall it?"

Arthur speaking again brings him to himself, and Merlin realizes with a hardened lump in his throat and fluttering in his stomach… that very little has changed.

That effortlessness between them still exists. They could have been hunting on Camelot's grounds with Gwaine and Leon in this moment, with Arthur making snide, prattish remarks about Merlin's supposed cowardice about fluffy, woodland creatures at his expense…

"S'rry—I just needed to know, is all," he mumbles, gazing down at his boots.

His eyes burn with unshed tears as Merlin's lips flatten together, peaking into a small smile as he stares back up.

"You look awful," Merlin says with a choked-off laugh.

An incredulous look passes over Arthur's face. "Your flattery skills are unrenowned. But me? What the devil are you _wearing_?"

Merlin glances down on instinct: dark, buckled hiking boots, a thicker pair of jeans, and two layers. He echoes the look.

"A jumper," he retorts, dryly.

It takes an embarrassingly long moment to hit him exactly why Arthur has no idea what a jumper is. Merlin's face grows hot.

"Ehm…" He tries backtracking. "Bit like a tunic, only warmer. And better."

"Right," Arthur drawls, and as an afterthought, he tugs at the argyle-patterned, black-pink-blue fabric with a speculative frown. "It's almost as ridiculous as that scarf of yours." Arthur's glove finds its way to his collar, inspecting its lack of formality. Merlin ignores another stomach flutter. He feels weirdly shy at the clearly physical motion.

Rightly so, he guesses.

Merlin gave up making close friends after the 14th century, choosing to be a friendly but rather mysterious acquaintance to his neighbors, if anyone had been interested in him.

Fortunately, for most of his various and widespread travels, they kept to themselves. So many of Merlin's friends had been swept away by a crippling plague that early century. Little did the history books care to discover that the Black Death had been the result of archaic, dark magic; the endgame of a villainous, foe of a fellow sorcerer.

It had been very complex magic that even Merlin struggled against… but now isn't the time to recollect.

"Oi, I like the stripes very—Arthur?" he asks, concerned, blue eyes rounding. Merlin darts in, grasping Arthur's shoulders as the other man sways visibly, head lolling.

He is freezing to the touch. They both are, but Merlin _isn't_ covered in lake water and probably numbing at the toes. (Why were they still dawdling outside?)

Merlin tucks himself under an armpit, heaving one of Arthur's arms up as he supports his friend's weight, grunting.

"Let's get you to a fireplace before you keel over."

Arthur's body straightens up, as they begin moving. "M'alright," he insists. "The castle's still a good walk from here."

"Not going to the castle." He might as well play along.

With a cant of his head, Merlin fights his balance. He halts their progress to adjust his grasp on the long, broad line of Arthur's back, already beginning to feel sore. This is going to take a while. "There's a cottage not far from here."

**.**

**.**

It can't have just been easy.

Then again, Merlin doesn't have room for complaining about this. He rarely got what he wanted.

The further they go, towards the glades and over debris in the woods, came more stumbling and needing to catch their bearings. Arthur said nothing, but Merlin imagines the other man was none-too-pleased about feeling so _dependent_ about getting about, or how icy water trickled through his clothes to his skin.

"We've done this before."

Merlin hears Arthur's shaking breathing in his ear, and the hoarse quality of it ruins his focus.

"You have a habit of needing me to carry you," he supplies, feigning cheer.

"You know what I mean." Arthur adds, seriously, "I was dying, Merlin."

Merlin's eyes thin to a narrow, but keep looking ahead.

"Not anymore," he murmurs. "You just got back. Stop talking, we're almost there."

Thickened fog surrounding them lightens up as the sun climbs high, beckoning on the new day.

Merlin ignores Arthur's too-low mutter of protest and scans his eyes over the groves.

The unnatural silence from earlier lifts. Once veiling the far-away, clean sounds of running brook water and birds twittering over his head, as well as the whistle of air through the tree-canopy. As if their arrival vested the rightful change in atmosphere.

Arthur's head tilts up. "It looks different."

"… 'course it does, clotpole," Merlin says, huffing for air, face muscles stretching for another smile. A larger, goofier one. "S'been a while…"

"Has it?" The other man asks, eyes tossing a sidelong glance at the noticeable tug on Merlin's lips. Arthur shoots him an unamused look, but there is a flicker all the same. "I believe I still arrived faster than you do for your duties. Never were on time."

"The rules never applied to me. Or maybe so I reckoned."

Arthur's own lips tug upwards as Merlin takes another difficult step. "The worst servant imaginable," he says, in barely concealed fondness.

**.**

**.**

**TBC...**

**.**

**.**

* * *

><p><em>BBC Merlin is not mine. <em>

_This is unreal. This story has been written and edited for two years and here we are. 300K+ words and more to go. The following chapters will get increasingly longer and the rating fulfilled, I promise._

_ I'm so excited to keep updating and I'm hoping you guys are thrilled to keep reading. I've got canon in this, Merlin's history for the time that's passed, mythological beasties, old characters, the faerie court, medieval renaissance faires, DRAGONS, MAGIC MAGIC EVERYWHERE, and a lot of slow-burn romance and healing between Merlin and Arthur._

_ I'd like to thank my two darling betas and everyone who has supported me as well as my two Britpicks **sermerlins** and **ememmyem** who saved my neck. And most importantly, half of this fic wouldn't exist without **marlena_darling** and I wanna say thank you for taking this journey with me and you've been a best friend to me. I love you lots and this is ours._


	2. Chapter 2

**.**

**.**

His own protective magic hums pleasantly under his skin, against his cranium.

Merlin can sense it, tingling the hairs on his neck and arms, as they approach the entrance of his cottage.

Ivy swaddles the outside walls, casting the meaningful sign to any unwanted presence, negative or foreign magical sources. Carnations planted along the stone gate clues into the same message.

The smooth, labyrinthine-patterned wood creaks, as Merlin nudges the garden gate open with his hip, still half-dragging his friend. His palm touches the siding of the gate, where Merlin's fingertips easily trace runes he carved intricately to solid, boulder structure.

Without being aware of the conscious thought, the front door unbolts itself and swung ajar, the outline of Merlin's eyes flaring a deep gold.

Arthur wavers for a split second and glances away, trying once more to carry himself.

It doesn't go unnoticed. Merlin believes any shivering to be an indication of the frigid temperature. Even his own fingertips are numb. It's not that hard to imagine just how _Arthur_ must be feeling in drenched things. Needed to get a fire lit, put the kettle on, check for injuries, pick out dry clothes and something filling to eat…

As Merlin runs through his mental list for his new guest, slipping into an old role, he nearly misses Arthur leaning away purposely.

He turns to his once-king hunching a moment before righting himself, staring not at the cottage or at Merlin. He supposes he couldn't truly grasp the emotions Arthur harbours now. Maybe ones Arthur himself isn't aware of yet—but he would be soon enough.

Coming back to life from centuries-dead, walking upon the lands you thought you had known from every pebble, every root. Arthur probably spent as much time in Camelot's forests hunting, training, spending leisure time as he did in his own proud citadel, as both a child and as an adult.

"Arthur?" Merlin asks, forcing himself a step back. "If you feel ill, take your time. But you should rest inside where it's warmer."

"I'm _fine_," Arthur says gruffly, restraining the clicking of his teeth.

But the swaying renewed full-force. He quickly grips tightly on Merlin's shoulder, catching himself with a resigned scowl. "… Perhaps warmer would be better," he mutters.

Merlin nods, silently lifting a hand, situating it comfortably on the square of Arthur's back, coaxing him inside.

Guess some things haven't changed at all. Arthur loathed being tended to—in a personal sense, wounded or not wounded. If it wasn't necessary, or it (god forbid) _emasculated_ him, Arthur wouldn't have it. There were plenty of memories of Arthur's pride, of his contested strength and early arrogance, and in the darkened loneliness of the past, they brought Merlin a cursory tenderness. But the nearness and warmth of a real body put Merlin at ease, for now.

"Good." A hint of teasing. Merlin reaches out with his other arm, pushing the rest of the front door open. "Then I don't have to shove your sorry arse in."

"I doubt you could if you tried," Arthur replies, only mildly genuine about his impertinence, especially with his mouth creasing into a smile.

Something like heat blossoms within Merlin's chest.

This is what it feels like then.

To have a _friend_ again… here with him, in this abandoned shamble of a cottage.

It was hidden away in the middle of nowhere near Glastonbury Tor, but not located far from the original lake of Avalon. Historians and interested groups thought the lake had been dried up. But it was better that the general population believed that. He _wanted_ them to, in order to shelter it from curious eyes. The lake grew smaller, less potent of magical properties.

How very wrong he had been.

Merlin assumes little of what the peculiars are of his living space; for so long he had not allowed any person in—but to anyone else's eyes, if they could scarcely comprehend it: _magic_ is as natural part of the environment as perhaps the very air circulating it.

In the far corner of where they stand, without any occupant to command it, a sorghum-made broom sweeps dirt from behind an armchair. On a redwood desk in the adjacent room, a blue-coloured ballpoint pen scribbles columns in a hurry. A thin-looking kitten, with golden fur and tiny paws, lounges on the armchair and bats idly at the passing broom.

The warlock faces his back to Arthur, just for an instant, waving his hand aimlessly at the hearth as it sprouts flames, crackling the firewood.

Merlin unbuttons and shrugs off one of his layers, turning back, eyeing him.

"Let's get that armour off you."

Arthur's dumbstruck gaze continues to wander, no longer paying him mind. He follows it when the possibility of _why_ strikes Merlin. He blinks, impulsively breaking the enchantments. The pen rolling useless. The broom clattering onto the floorboards. And the kitten leaps off the ratty chair, skittish by the obvious, abrupt noise, dashing for the hallway.

Oh.

Merlin opens his mouth, perhaps to defuse the situation, but finds he cannot, leaving his mouth parted.

_Oh_.

His tongue nervously flashes over a lower lip. He draws in a breath, puffing out his cheeks comically as he lets go. The door shuts as Merlin does it himself, guiding Arthur by the shoulder to move away and earning a slight glare.

His hands stretch out, beginning with the complicated strap-work of the pauldron. He lets the heavy, plated armour fall, piece-by-piece, at their feet. In over a thousand years, it would have been easy to forget how to do this. Merlin's pale fingers memorized every careful and fluid motion, every yank, every clinch.

The chain-mail next, and Merlin gets handfuls of it, pulling up. "Arms."

A light snort happens, but Arthur graciously obeys, raising his arms and ducking his head when the mesh-collar swings free.

It pools forgotten with everything else, and the extra padding Merlin unknots before Arthur is left with the single tunic—dirtied and soaked. A jagged tear in the red fabric along the middle left of Arthur's chest. Merlin's eyes search it, for the fatal wound's entrance, for _anything_ as evidence that it's there.

Only a purplish-brown tinge of bruising. Merlin's fingers clench at the hole.

"It's not there," he says, reassured.

Arthur rolls his shoulders, glancing down with Merlin at his own front. He prods the same hole, thoughtfully. "I think I would have felt it by now, Merlin," he argues, but without unkindness.

Slowly, Merlin's fingers release their hold, the pad of his forefinger brushing over firm, human-warm skin.

Merlin's eyes flick up inquisitively, leveling with another pair of blue eyes.

Before he can think of countering him, the increasing high-pitch whine of his kettle crowds his attention, and both puts Arthur on edge as their heads whip around in the same direction.

"Uhmm," he mutters, waving a hand lazily, not sparing Arthur a look. "I'll… be a minute…"

**.**

**.**

The kettle shrieks when Merlin shuts off the heated cooker-top with a twist of his hand, not waiting for the noise to go down before grabbing a rag and removing the kettle safely.

Electricity and gas-powered items were difficult and impossible to operate effectively out this far from the town. But in this modern era, they are damn near _necessities_. Even without the proper wiring, his magic does have some lucky advantages.

Mumbling one of his summoning spells, two cups from the wall-cabinet hovers in front of Merlin, at waist-height as he cautiously pours the hot water into them. Merlin finishes hunting around for some tea bags, dropping them into each cup, and he grasps at the cup's handles.

Out in the parlour, Arthur has discovered one of the settees, slumping on it. Arthur's eyes trail over the kitten following Merlin, tail swishing contently.

"Found him about a week ago. He won't eat," Merlin says, feeling a nuzzle on his bare foot. "Seems to like me anyway—careful, it's hot," he warns, having Arthur grab his own cup.

The other man examines its somewhat familiar shape, but not-so-familiar texture of the ceramic or printed image on the side of it. It appears to be a crest of some kind: silver vines entwined and a green backdrop with a silver, coiling snake rearing up to strike. Arthur's nose wrinkles. He has never seen such a crest. Merlin didn't _have_ a family crest.

"Slaay… _thh_…" he sounds out to himself.

Merlin's lips curl into a tiny smirk. "Personally, I think you're more of a Gryffindor."

Arthur gives him a withering look.

"I feel this is some sort of insult, coming from you," he mutters over the rim of his tea.

Despite the soreness of his raw throat, Merlin's laugh to follow is heartfelt and loud. He jerks his chin as the blond man picks at his red, damp tunic and at the large rip. "It's shambles. Leave it. I'll find you something else."

"I doubt one of your…" Arthur eyes him dismissively. "'Jumpers' will fit."

"One of the nightshirts will."

"You could always _fix it_, you know."

Arthur's exasperation only fuels the teasing.

"Yea, suppose I could." Merlin finally sits on the ground, feet tucking underneath him. Blue eyes trail over Arthur. He adds, expressionless, "But then, I suppose I could let you sleep in your wet, dirty clothes and save all the dry ones for myself."

"Yes, then I'd simply take your bed. I'm sure it will do the trick of keeping me warm. Hope you don't mind damp sheets," Arthur challenges.

Merlin holds back an eyeshrug, just barely, but returns the little smile on Arthur's face. The edgy feeling, like pacing, fades off. They were joking. About _magic_. About Merlin _having_ magic. Arthur looks more comfortable beside the roaring fire, visibly warmer, broad shoulders no longer shivering.

_Gladdened_—that is the emotion Merlin feels coursing through him. He's sure of it.

That smile kindles a pocket of warmth, deeper than the heat of the fire soaking in Merlin's bones, or the cup of tea in his hands.

It's warmth, he realises, that Merlin dares to hope long ago could find him one day. The warmth and appreciation of an unbreakable _friendship_. Not a trace of mocking or sardonic intent. It's perhaps the third time this morning Merlin goes speechless, if only briefly.

He leans forward, his own cup in the curl of his hand. Merlin scratches behind the kitten's ear as it purrs quietly, his eyes softening. The kitten rubs its head into Merlin's palm, arching its back slowly into the affectionate touch. The few days ago Merlin saw it in the rain gutter, golden fur muddied, hungry and mewling and huddling inside Merlin's double-layered overcoat, the kitten never fussed about a stranger. It never clawed Merlin in fear when the warlock bathed it or let it nap on his bed.

Arthur snorts, witnessing the animal-to-human display with semi-interest. "Where did you say you found the beast again?"

Merlin's eyes remain lowered, smile widening, exposing his teeth.

"He didn't mean it, Gaius," he murmurs, sing-songing. "Arthur's a mean, ole cabbagehead; yes, yes he is…"

The kitten nudges its head towards Arthur's fingers, warm, soft fur touching against a curious hand.

"Does Gaius know you named a scrawny feline after him? I'm rather offended on his behalf."

Merlin's shoulders tense. His lungs suddenly too constricted, as if taking a swift blow and he had been completely unprepared for it.

_Arthur didn't know._

The reflective surface of cooling water reveals the crumbling sadness Merlin hates reflecting back. Of course, how and why would have Arthur known?

"Gaius is dead." Merlin's inhale trembles with a long sigh. "Has been for a long time now," he mumbles.

Arthur's eyes close, reopening with his voice even, "… I'm sorry, Merlin."

Merlin nods sluggishly, dropping his face from view, hands knuckling and cradling, as if it offers some feeble protection from the reminder. No tears are shed for the reminder. He had shed the load in time for him, for Guinevere, for the knights and for Camelot. For friends that had come and gone afterward, resembling wisps of smoke. For his mother aged gracefully, dying peacefully in her cot; her soft, limp hand in Merlin's own.

"Thank you," he says, ears feeling clogged with the thickness and monotone of his words.

"Why are you _here_, Merlin? You belong in Camelot. You've avoided the subject."

With his fist dry, Merlin rubs his fingers under an eye, glimpsing summer-blue eyes on him. They aren't ready for this conversation.

"How long do you think you were in the lake, Arthur… ?"

Arthur's cup sets on the nearby table, elbows weighing on his knees.

"How should I know?" He answers, face scrunching, "It didn't… There was no _time_. I couldn't have been there for long, yet it could have not been a day." Arthur examines him, dread overtaking his features. "But I have the feeling… that you know how long I have been away."

"Long enough," Merlin admits, braving down the wildest urge to laugh at his own pathetically understated words. "Times have changed, Arthur. They really have. When everyone believed you passed on, Gwen was crowned the new ruler. The streets were filled… people throwing flowers, cheering for her…"

A laugh does pass his lips. Merlin places a hand flat down, tilting his face upwards and fixing his stare on empty space.

"They loved her. Her kindness… her good heart. You would have been proud of her."

He didn't hear Arthur shift on the settee, heart thudding.

The news wouldn't be surprising. Arthur had no heirs or true-born siblings. But he doesn't hide the gratitude or appreciation in his expression at the mention of Gwen, however faint it is, and it echoes in a close-lipped smile on Merlin. Yes, he leaves off the knowledge of her death. It's far too early to say it. Merlin purposely speaks as if it has been so long ago, hoping Arthur would be eased into the truth that it hasn't been weeks, or months, or even the measure of several _decades_ since his painful death.

"Struggling with the acceptance of magic lingered in the kingdom. But, I think Camelot tried… to accept those like me."

"Those with sorcery?"

Merlin solemnly tips a bit of drink into his mouth, wishing for something stronger. It certainly hadn't been glamorous. He hadn't requested the title of Court Sorcerer. Merlin had not _told_ anyone of his magic, at the risk of what it would do and to Arthur's queen. Still hiding in plain sight, though discouraging, was necessary.

He preferred the occupation of a physician's assistant, before eventually accepting Gwen's stubborn proposal of the higher rank of Court Physician. His resolve almost wavered, back then: freshly grieving Arthur's death and unable to face the kingdom with the terrible news. It isn't a time he wished to relieveever again.

The words about the Once and Future King had rang with him. Made him _believe_ that, one day, they would all see Arthur's face again. (Destinies were not created to be known line-by-line, and Merlin wonders in the back of his mind why now this has happened.)

"You won't see very much of it. Sorcery is viewed more… like a farce now," he explains. "Hardly anyone think it's real."

A skeptic noise.

"That isn't possible."

"I can assure you it is, Arthur."

Other than that, he seems, dare Merlin think, _complacent_ about what he hears. Being raised under Uther's shadowy, hateful reign against magic must have caused some internal conflict between what his father told him and what morals Arthur constructed of his own free will.

Arthur's heart was _pure_, that's what Merlin remembers. Innocent lives weren't object to harm, not under Arthur's rule.

However, the next part would the most difficult to swallow.

"I'm done with secrets. You deserve to know the whole truth, as much as I can give you." Merlin firmly meets his eyes, and forgoes personal space, holding onto Arthur's knee. "Camelot's gone… it's the twenty-first century, Arthur. Nearly two thousand years since I put your body in Avalon's lake."

At first, it doesn't look as if it registers. Arthur's eyebrows furrow, gaze still on Merlin. His colour drains away.

Two thousand years.

At the low, spooked noise escaping Arthur's mouth, Merlin kneels up from the floor, his fingers clenching on that knee. Something warm and _grounding_ to Arthur's sinking reality.

It's a frighteningly stark discovery. Everything Arthur has known, his lands, his kingdom, his _world_ has been torn from him and replaced with foreign concepts. It allows Merlin a bout of nausea to imagine how Arthur would fare beyond the cottage and the woods. Let alone how he may react to brand new machinery and behaviour.

"Merlin, you can't expect me to believe…"

Yet, he does. There's earnest in Merlin's face—a long-forgotten compassion.

Arthur looks like he's going to be sick all over himself.

His back curves in, elbows scooting up his thighs as the blond man clasps his hands in front of his mouth, but does not emit anymore helpless breaths. He's steadier.

"I'm sorry there isn't another way to go about this," Merlin says, benign. "It might take time for you to understand and I don't blame you if this is frightening." He shook his head, the dark fringe flopping. "I can hardly believe it myself sometimes."

"But you're here and right when I _look_ at you…"

Arthur's eyes flick up, as Merlin's following breath comes out rough, loud from his mouth. The other man beams a little, cheeks dimpling.

"… s'like being back home."

The corners of Arthur's lips quirk appreciatively. "This could be a dream," he points out.

"Rubbish dream, I expect," Merlin says cynically, letting Arthur's knee go.

"If it isn't, then you've been away from home for some time, haven't you?"

The murmured question reels Merlin's thoughts from their scattered paths. A very long time, _yes_. More than Arthur can ever perceive without the hardened immortality.

"Doesn't matter. You're here now, Arthur—which means you _needed_ to be here."

The cottage's heat fills Merlin's limbs, making his eyelids heavy.

He clears his throat, blinking slowly. "And… you should get some rest, for an hour or so," Merlin says, lightly scoffing, rising to his feet and snatching up Arthur's now cold and tasteless cup of tea. "You barely look like you can stay sitting upright for another minute."

"For once, you may be right," Arthur murmurs, running a hand over his face. "It seems more and more miracles are occurring."

Merlin gestures to the door towards the corridor, ignoring the jibe.

"Bed's in there," he says, scratching at the back of his neck. His features scrunch up as Merlin swallows down a big yawn, releasing a soft noise through his nostrils. "Take a load off. I'll wake you for dinner."

He hears a grunt from his companion before Arthur disappears behind the bedroom door left open a crack.

It's enough to draw Gaius' attention from kneading the braided, taupe-coloured rug with his claws. The kitten approaches the door, slipping in quiet like a shadow.

Merlin snickers to himself, passing through the corridor into the kitchen.

(Hope Arthur doesn't mind some company.)

The radio remains switched off—though, he did enjoy music while washing or cooking—as the warlock rolls up his jumper sleeves and pulls at the cutlery drawers, aimless in his intentions.

What would Arthur eat after being _dead_? What _could_ he eat? Did he still fancy his favourite foods or would he experience severe food reactions?

Those faintly inane questions swim around his mind as Merlin copies Arthur's earlier motions, rubbing at his eyes until they water.

His legs feel incredibly tired. Merlin sinks into a small, wooden stool facing away from the kitchen entrance, leaning into the counter-top, jaw weighing on an opened palm.

_Dinner_…

Eyelids creep down, shutting Merlin's blurred vision as his entire body loosens, relaxing.

**.**

**.**

The darkness of sleep never grasps him entirely.

Rather, he seems feather-light, hovering around in abyssal space. Flashes of colour erupt around him, sparking vivid lightning. Pale faces grinning—

—_Morgana's face split with beautifully deranged grimace and framed by her wild, black hair_

—_Mordred, eyes icy on him, cloaked in the silvery cast of mail, his teeth bared like a feral animal_

Everything quivers out of focus, scintillate-flashes—

—_crackles from the funeral pyre with Gwaine's body cradled inside_

—_the Great Dragon's fanged, enigmatic smile, roundness of amber-orange eyes_

—_Merlin's hands scraped and covered in blood, digging angrily at the blue-glow crystals_

—_Freya, shy and dirtied with filth, holding her hand lovingly to the side of his face_

—_Arthur's pain-hazed, blue eyes falling shut_

—_the Dorocha, earth-shattering shrieking, consuming him_

—_Arthur, again, with a rip in his tunic, dripping cold water on the leaves_

—_strong hands, tracing against Merlin's flexing, naked shoulder blade, exploring against a dark, winding tattoo_

—_a blaring car horn, screeching tires, blood trickling freely from yellow hair_

**.**  
><strong>.<strong>

Arthur isn't sure he can actualise what's happened.

There's still too much, his thoughts diving and churning in a void. Merlin's voice often toed the barrier between growing numbness and his reality, bringing him back from the cliff-edge. Of course Arthur can hardly accept his circumstances. That many _hundreds_ of years, having been… gone. It's madness.

Once alone, inside the bedroom, Arthur's resolve wavers. He closes his eyes and forces an inhale through his lips.

Some items around him vaguely resemble his own bedchambers in Camelot. The bed. The wardrobe. The desk. The sheets. But there are no candles to be found, nor poster round the bed. No quills. No trays. The walls don't seem to be any form of carved stone Arthur recognizes, smooth and papery to the touch.

His whole being feels exhausted, particularly now from the warmth of the fireplace and Merlin.

Silence allows his mind to wander, and that would prove to be dangerous.

One of Arthur's eyes peek open when he hears a low purring noise. The golden kitten paws at his feet, nudging him.

"I suppose you expect to sleep in the bed, too," he says, disdainfully. As if understanding him, it hops up on his mattress. Arthur ignores the kitten, quickly shedding his damp tunic and his trousers, deciding that even if he had threatened it, he will not sleep in Merlin's bed with water-bogged clothes.

He climbs on, taking a moment to adjust himself with the sheets. It feels odd, sleeping once more in a large bed proving much softer and cozier than his own. The scent of another person on the blankets. Faded hints of perspiration. Rosemary and bitter oils that Arthur remembers from Gaius' workshop.

At least this new age does something right. He can sleep well in a bed like this.

Arthur sighs through his nose, refusing on the onslaught of further thoughts. Even then, it feels… nice here.

**.**

**.**

With a shocked, gasping cry, Merlin jolts awake.

He flails his arms out, the stool banging onto the kitchen floor. Panic rises, blocking out his senses. Merlin grips unforgiving into the edge of the worktop, sucking in and out noisy, whining breathes until everything ceases violently spinning. Eyes clamping shut.

Containers and preservative jars rattle precariously in their secure places, as his magic riles and swells inside him.

Ready to burst with the leftover emotions cast by his dreams. (He doesn't … he _can't_ dream.)

He _has_ to gain control again.

Merlin lets out another whining breath, shoulders trembling visibly as his fingers dug harder. He hears an object shatter noisily to his left, as his magic fluxes momentarily from his reach, jerking his head around. Chunks of thickly-constructed glass from the window pane litter over the floor and kitchen sink.

"_Reparer eagþyrl_," he mutters, eyes yielding to gold.

After a few seconds, the window sits untouched and unbroken. Compelling to verbalise a spell brings back a sense of himself and where he is at currently—barely able to keep his weight on his own two feet, his face uncomfortably warm and streaked with tears, chest heaving.

The world stops tilting long enough for Merlin to regain his balance, using his hands to push himself up straight. His fingers lightly stroke the sharp, familiar edge of his worktop. Colours aren't blurring together anymore. The low roar in Merlin's ears dulling in strength.

The panic once tumult ebbs from his nerves, releasing the stronghold on him.

He is _home_— Merlin is safe.

**.**

**.**

Sleep is neither consoling nor disturbing; it's simply fluid.

After so long in the lake, Arthur doesn't expect how fast it overtakes him, but the tiresome journey and the shock from Merlin's revelation—_one was too many_—wipes all exuberance from him. Arthur figures he would have a little trouble sleeping, and if he had been conscious, he might have been thankful this was the case.

But once the dreams begin, his appreciation fades.

What seems like memories flood him before his mind's eye: Leon's reassuring smile, Gwaine's boisterous laughter and Percival's amused head-shake. Lancelot's solemn, dark gaze. Guinevere standing before him, beautiful and bright, calling to him pleasantly. Then, they start to ripple. Images distort. Guinevere paled and grayed.

Sounds garbled as a heavy presence settles on his chest, as if he plummets down. Sinking and can't reach the people so close.

Arthur is powerless, watching Guinevere fade away, her eyes losing their light and a sob echoing in the background. Clashing of metal, of yells and cries of agony. Funeral pyres; firelight and scorching heat filling up the air. Morgana taking her final, shuddering breath. Camelot's walls, now barren and deteriorating, crumbling under the power of a flood.

And then, there are blue eyes. With color _luminous_, clearer than the water itself, and spreading warmth like dragon's fire searing through his body.

The eyes melt into oranges and golds. A scrape of lips, blunt fingernails, and the sound desperate and pleading unlike anything he's known.

He reaches out, wanting to free himself, to touch, but unable. Pure chaos overwhelms. Emotions and flashes of more memories happening all at once, but only coming to a halt long enough for the darkness and cold to envelope him. A cry, muffled and distant, slicing apart the dream.

Arthur goes upright in the bed, heart racing and eyes snapping open. He feels his leg bump into a furry, living bundle, but disregards it in favour of catching his breath.

His mind runs, images of his most trusted companions aging and dying. He stiffens before letting the tension unravel, and Arthur falls back against the covers with a groan. Once he has his bearing, familiarises himself with what he remembers before sleeping, it's easier to notice the sounds outside the door.

"Merlin?" he croaks out before Arthur stops himself, paranoia and agitation returning.

It takes a hazy period of time to understand where Arthur is, what has happened and why this room is so different. The sooner it does, the sooner he wishes it hadn't come back to him. Arthur sucks in another breath, valiantly fighting the knowledge of everything he once knew crumbling around him.

His ears pick up glass breaking, and more noises following it.

_Merlin._

The name reverberates in his thoughts, and Arthur pulls himself out of bed, kicking off the sheets.

He strides out the door, feeling ill-prepared without a sword. Or any other weapon handy. But he's very much prepared for this to be a _nightmare_.

Despite it all, Arthur could be hallucinating, caught by a fever, and someone was attempting to rob him or a servant was fumbling around. He could wish and wish and wish endlessly for those imaginings to be truth, but he knows better now.

However, it's no cause to show cowardice. He's ready for the unexpected… but when Arthur charges in, he can say this is _not_ what he imagined.

Just one look at Merlin tells him something's amiss, but Arthur only stares in dumb horror.

The area seems undisturbed, despite the racket earlier, but Merlin… Merlin is another story. He's a wreck, shaking and red, with tear-streaked cheeks and panting. Seeing Merlin like this unnerves him, if Arthur's heart battering in his ears is any indication.

He looks shattered in his expression, as if the Merlin he knows has been reduced to pieces and he simply can't find them all.

Arthur frowns, eyebrows pinching in concern as he steps forward.

"Merlin?" he questions sharply, jarring the other man from his apparent daze.

Silence hangs.

Merlin's lips press in a thin line as he marches to the other man. He clearly doesn't intend for Arthur to be given a choice in the matter, or shield himself from the intrusion despite the state of undress. Merlin quickly and clumsily throws his arms to Arthur's neck, hugging them tightly in place.

The action catches Arthur off-guard, lips parting as he struggles for words but locates none.

Instead, Arthur's bare arms lift, slowly tucking them around the other man. This isn't something he's used to doing for Merlin. He holds on like Arthur may vaporise into smoke at the tiniest shift, leaving Merlin alone once more for… centuries. He… had been alone for that long, hadn't he?

An inescapable and terrifying realisation sweeps over him: _Merlin has been_. All the evidence shines in his creased, hurt smile Arthur glimpses.

He wraps his arms around Merlin's shoulders once more to reinforce the gesture.

There was no need to speak— not when Arthur sees it with clarity now.

The point of Merlin's chin lands on the top of Arthur's shoulder. He feels good. Merlin feels good and he feels _solid_. The heat of his skin through fabric, along with the softened breathing and gentle rhythm of Merlin's narrower chest to his. He's like heaven and all the good and bad things Arthur can't ever replace.

Merlin's arms withdraw, however long it is before the decision's made, as he takes a difficult step backwards.

"S'rry," Merlin mumbles, bowing his head to wipe his eyes with a striped-sleeve. "… I d'nt think you were real for a moment."

He glances up, red rimming blue eyes, but a lighthearted smile playing on Merlin's lips.

"Did I wake you?"

"I woke on my own," Arthur replies, dismissively.

(What did Merlin mean by… didn't think _he_ was real?)

"You got some sleep, at least," he says, suddenly averting his eyes from Arthur. What—?

Oh, _right_. Arthur had stepped out in his smallclothes.

He crosses a scarred, muscular arm over himself on instinct, clearing his throat and cheeks warming. It isn't as if Merlin _hasn't_ seen him in full or partial nudity. But that had been under the professional role as a manservant which … Arthur supposes isn't the case anymore.

Merlin's fingers rubs at his temple.

"Damn," he swears, rushing for the available space behind him. Arthur peers over, and then at the sleek, metal-looking box Merlin had thrust open and now stares into. Arthur's eyebrows lower, head cocking mildly as it emits a sound like a winter storm brewing overhead.

What in the _heavens_ was—?

"Uhm, well—there's not much to eat here tonight, Arthur." Merlin cringes apologetically as he goes on, "I didn't expect _company_ tonight. Or… ever. I need to pick up some food in town. Sunset's not for another few hours."

A doubtful noise. Even so, he doesn't think Merlin can journey back before the sun set, not with how far out other towns are.

With a slow chill, Arthur realises that possibly other towns _are_ closer.

Merlin slams the lid of the strange, metal, torture-containment box shut, closing off the blizzard-cold air. The other man restrains himself from jumping, greatly distrustful of it.

"You should stay here, until I get back and…" He pauses, taking in Arthur's facial expression and deadpans, mouth twisting in amused frustration, "You're not going to listen and stay put, even if I asked, are you?"

"Very good, Merlin. You're keeping up," Arthur quips, and while his tone is easy, it holds conviction. He is _not_ going sit around and _wait_ like some girl. "Besides, I should go out and… see what has changed."

"I can't stop you and I know that," Merlin says, leveling a serious '_understand-what-I'm-saying-you-giant-prat_' glare. "But we go on my terms. Or we don't go at all."

He raises a skinny index finger warningly in front of him, effectively stopping Arthur as he wished.

"—It's 2012, Arthur. A very long time from Camelot's rule. And you have _no idea_ what you are in for, besides loads of culture shock. There is zero doubt in my mind that you are going to be utterly confused and _no-one_ goes around _anymore_, swinging maces at strangers they don't like. There are big, noisy cars instead of horses and carts and girls wearing short skirts _and_ there are no more dueling matches on the ordinary streets for your bloody _honour_—"

The one-sided conversation is beginning to verge on babbling. Arthur can't tell if the reason he hardly understands is because of the speed or because half the words out of Merlin's mouth doesn't make sense. He grasps at the fact that times are different, or at least should be if Merlin isn't playing at him. The bit about 'cars' interests him, but is forgotten.

"There are still _manners_ and needing to act like an ordinary bloke, so please," Merlin stresses on the last word, his face straining. "For once… listen to me."

"It will be _fine_, Merlin," Arthur snaps, mimicking a frown.

"You say that a lot."

(Did he not think he could blend in? Arthur remembers similar uncertainties when they met Gwaine, and he assumes it isn't that unrelated, is it?)

He places a firm hand on Merlin's shoulder. "Then, yes, I will follow your lead," Arthur says. "It can't be that difficult."

It doesn't appear to reassure Merlin at all, as an unconvinced, close-lipped smile flashes at him and Merlin heads out of the kitchen. He groans to himself as if pained and scrubs his hands over his face. What a _girl_. Arthur rolls his eyes at the dramatics, trailing after him.

"Start with getting dressed! You're not going out in your pants!" Merlin shouts.

"I'm not an idiot, _Mer_lin!"

He hesitates at the doorway entrance to Merlin's bedroom. Things are moving on their own again.

Arthur is slowly getting accustomed to witnessing this, but a prickle of apprehension nevertheless crawls over him when he eyes the drawer opening and closing. Gaius watches, lounged out on Merlin's pillows, with feline disinterest as invisible hands sort through various articles of clothing, but leaps up as the wardrobe bangs open.

His lips quirk as the kitten darts off, startled.

A pair of combat boots soar through the air, aiming for Merlin's right side.

Arthur's stance goes rigid before easing as Merlin snatches them by the laces effortlessly. "Here," Merlin says, looking at Arthur. "This'll fit you until there's some clothes in your size." He continues staring when Arthur folds his arms, not yielding to the offer.

"Is _that_ what the peasants wear nowadays?"

"Yes, that's what _people_ wear when they literally have nothing else," Merlin says with traces of clipped sarcasm. "You're certainly not parading about in your armour like a daft twit so you may as well get on with it." Without needing to hear more, no, not even an syllable of an argument, Merlin tosses an… _odd-looking_ tunic at Arthur.

He marches out, allowing the other man to change in privacy.

Arthur's hands and arms unfold in time to catch the bundle of clothing, though fumbling. He manages to get one of the boots by the brown lacings. "At least my armour gives me room to breathe, unlike your trousers," he says curtly, but Merlin's already out the door.

A resigned sigh.

…Was he expected to dress _himself_ as well?

Arthur fights down the familiar urge to shout for Merlin. It may have been a new age, but a king surely can figure it out.

His body parts enter the properly-fitting holes.

Simple as that.

… …Wasn't it?

**.**

**.**

They both slept much later than planned.

Despite how the late hours approach, and the sun's heat, the November cold lingers inevitably this season. Merlin busies himself by grabbing one of the overcoats on the rack near the cottage's front door, smoothing it over an arm and waiting for his companion to walk out. Knowing Arthur, he couldn't be buggered.

That, or he'd say to hell with new-found independence and yell for Merlin.

Until then, Merlin ticks off a mental list of what he needs, his fingers counting it out with him: Get into town. Visit Tom's Apothecary to pick up week's pay. Run into the supermart for future meals and spare clothes. Avoid chats with familiar faces, if possible. Prevent Arthur from looking like a complete dolt out in public for the first time. Teach him about pavements and crossings so he doesn't get run over by a damned—

A lightheaded sensation closes in on him.

It vibrates the skin on his face and Merlin's body shudders. He shakes it off, blinking out the grey corners to his vision. Huh?

His bedroom door thrusts open.

Arthur emerges fully dressed in the joggers Merlin picked out, and he really thinks he deserves a pat on the back. No, Merlin definitely deserves it. For being able to keep a straight face at how surreal and ridiculously _casual_—or rather, just how _ridiculous_ Arthur looks in modern, baggy clothes.

Arthur's eyes narrow in suspicion.

"Am I keeping you?" he asks, standing across from him.

"No, certainly not," Merlin tells him, coolly. This time, he carefully hands the overcoat on his arm to Arthur, tossing him a cheeky grin.

"_After you_."

**.**

**.**

**TBC...**

**.**

**.**

* * *

><p><em>A humongous THANK YOU to everyone who has been commenting, favoriting and following! One of the best things is hearing your reactions. :) Hope you enjoyed!<em>


	3. Chapter 3

**.**

**.**

As they approach town, the woods becomes less dense.

Merlin tries to fall in stride with Arthur. Though somewhat difficult, seeing how Arthur prefers to walk in long steps, back ramrod straight, shoulders held high, like he is in a great hurry to somewhere important, to meet someone even more important. All of the time. (Which may have been true during Camelot's time. All of the time.)

The streetlights were already lit. It can't have been that late, he considers. The return of the fog may have had a hand in the decision.

On their way, Merlin briefly explains some things they were bound to come across. Briefly didn't perhaps describe it accurately; it feels brief and he doesn't know if Arthur truly knows what he may have been seeing. Giant metal poles in the distance… floating lights that could have been _conjured_…

Any excuse to not question himself on what happened. On _dreams_ that couldn't be materialized from thin air—_memories_, even _prophecies_, yes. But never…

Merlin's arm flings out, connecting with Arthur's broad chest, as both men come upon a road within the boundaries of the local town.

A wide industrial lorry, hugely built and fast, roars by in front of them.

His fingers grip into the soft, fleecy material of Arthur's sweatshirt. "The last thing we need is an accident," Merlin whispers, heart pounding, letting go after a moment and tucking his hands into his jean pockets. "The lorries usually stay on the main road, and the motorways. But we'll be seeing more cars."

"Right," Arthur mutters, swallowing, his wide, blue eyes following the path of the road.

Seeing that Arthur could be easily confused by his new surroundings, and distracted, does not reassure Merlin.

"Stick close, alright?" The request comes out gentler than intended.

At the silent confirmation, Merlin's stare draws down on Arthur's hands. Deliberately, one of Merlin's own slides out into the open, reaching out to grasp loosely to Arthur's right hand. Cold, bare skin, but Merlin's palm feels too-warm and clammy. Merlin tugs on their hands, urging Arthur to move.

His own voice sounds thick in Merlin's ears. "S'what people usually do when they're crossing together…"

There's a deeper question morphing Arthur's expression, but never reveals itself fully.

Thankfully, only a dozen or more of the locals rove the pavements, chatting on mobiles and laughing and shoving each other. More bright-eyed teenagers than stern-faced adults. They blend in easily.

The apothecary's neon sign read "Open" in the large entrance window. Merlin stops them, meeting Arthur's eyes, sharply.

"Before we go in, remember to let me do the talking. If anyone asks, you're from Edinburgh, and just visiting me for the holiday," he explains. "I'm 'Leon' here, not Merlin. That's important. The owner has my pay packets and I need them so I can get our dinner and your clothes, and before it gets dark, understand?"

"Yes, yes, I've got it," Arthur replies, glancing away critically into the shop. "Lying hasn't exactly changed since my time."

Merlin's resolve wavers the tiniest bit at the mention of _lying_.

It's not something he enjoys, not now. Now with Arthur. Too many years had been ruled by secrecy and fear of the truth being found out. The entirety of the truth is the parts of himself Merlin wants to _finally_ get used to having, to show his… once-king. At the mention of the stage name, of the departed and beloved Leon, Arthur's eyes dim their usual colour and vibrancy. A hot, ugly sensation in Merlin's gut, twisting it.

"We won't be in for long," he says, somberly, clammy fingers pulling away from Arthur's hand.

Tom's Apothecary smells like cleaner today. A little too strongly.

Merlin's nose wrinkles.

The door's bell tinkles, bringing them immediately to attention. He brightens visibly at the shop's owner bustling around the checkout counter, all bangled bracelets and wearing her ornate, amber amulet round her thin neck.

"Evening, gents. Can I help you find anythin'?"

"Ms. Thomas, do you remember me?" Merlin asks, momentarily startling her. "Leon? We met at the library a few summers ago…"

Recognition flits on her sun-blotched features.

"Emrie Uhas' boy? Not aged a day, 'ave yeh?" she says, doling out a laugh that gives the impression that the whole two-story may vibrate with her. "How is the old bat feeling? Not serious, is it? Coming down with a nasty cough, last I 'eard."

"In bed. I'm taking care of him." Merlin shakes his head, feigning sympathy. "I actually came by to see if it was possible to pick up his envelope," he adds hopefully, dimples popping in another smile. As if their appearance were the key to success, the middle-aged woman clucks her tongue, hooking Merlin's arm through hers and motherly patting it.

"O' course, love." Ms. Thomas steers him towards the counter. "Mind signing the papers?"

"Sure."

Merlin's head turns over his shoulder when she isn't looking, pointedly sharing the message with Arthur '_oi-bump-on-a-log-get-your-arse-over-here_'.

He simply nods, walking behind Merlin, but mouths in silence and curiosity: '_Emrie Uhas_?'

Merlin mouths back '_Later_' and knows eventually he would hold him to his word.

A brief rummage through a portfolio. Ms. Thomas slides the papers to him and a clicked pen. Her eyes glide over Arthur, as if seeing him for the first time—clearly approving.

"Who is this handsome fellow yeh brought with yeh?"

A noise stifles, like a loud, choked snort. Merlin smiles to himself, hunching over the counter and earns him a sly kick from Arthur in the shin. Arthur has _no_ idea what's happening, that much is obvious. Let alone why Merlin and his employer speak about a third party. But hid it astonishingly well, no surprise there.

The kick itself is _harder_ than expected, spiking a flash of pain up Merlin's left leg but does nothing to quell the urge to snort laughter into his jumper sleeve—and Merlin does, burying his face into his arm and attempting halfheartedly to regain control of himself.

"Arthur Pen—"

The other man hesitates, but then leans forward, offering a polite hand. Unknown to everyone else, Merlin slams his forehead on the hard-topped counter. Quit. He quit.

"I'm a friend of Leon's, visiting on holiday."

He must be selling it with a convincing smile.

"What a charmer yeh are," his overjoyed-and-not-suspicious-of-anything-at-all-off employer says, beaming.

Arthur chuckles, sounding more genuine, "Thank you."

She shakes Arthur's hand with her entire arm, squeezing his hand amiably.

Merlin rubs at his forehead, straightening from slumping over—a gangly, bad-fashion decisioned creature—and taps his hand on the papers. "Done," he announces, lowly.

With short, friendly embrace from Ms. Thomas (along with the envelope of notes) and a questioning look from Arthur, Merlin excuses them from her shop. Arthur leaves a quick word of departure and Merlin promises to check in with his sickly great-grandfather and relay any information on his condition.

The bell tinkles behind them as they return outside, frost pooling from their lips.

"Arthur… Pen?" Merlin repeats, syllable by syllable, glaring. "Tell me you weren't giving to her your full name…"

"I fail to see the problem with that, _Mer_lin."

"It _is_ a problem."

"Just because you've changed your name doesn't mean I must change mine," he responds indignantly. "It's been hundreds of years, Merlin. No one will recognise it."

"You need to _think_ before you act," passes Merlin's lips in ominous, hushed tones. "Have you even _considered_ the consequences of anyone knowing who you are?"

Arthur's chin tilts up in defiance and Merlin can feel his ears go red, but not from exposure of the bitter cold alone. Giving into his chagrin and his anger serves no point. But Merlin had not been able to indulge on such a strong sense of despair, not in so long. Or have the opportunity to vein it towards one specific person; the person who would understand it more.

Merlin chooses to walk away, trying to empty himself of those increasing thoughts, but finds he's not getting far.

He spins at the heel on the quietly lit pavement. The inside of Merlin's chest grows hotter and hotter, and if he opens his mouth, he imagines that a dragon's fire would burst forth.

Merlin's face does not harden, but turns withdrawn. He says harshly, dropping his voice to a whisper, "Do you honestly think I _like_ going around and pretending to be someone I'm not? To protect my identity and anyone else who could be at risk if it got out that I practiced _magic_? Not even in Camelot did I have much of a choice. It wasn't for a lark when I had to pretend to be a clueless idiot all the time when _you_ were the person who had _no_ idea what I had to sacrifice to keep you safe."

Merlin's eyes betray a deep sadness. "I have never asked anything in return, Arthur. That isn't why I used my magic," he explains. "I didn't want power; I didn't want recognition. You were my _friend_ and I want to believe you still are. I wanted to be in Camelot with you. Be the person I was and not be _afraid_ of that."

A long, quivering breath. The cutting pain of Merlin's fingernails bore into his palms, as his hands fist at his sides, snaps him back. Makes him aware of Arthur's reaction.

"I'm sorry," Arthur voices aloud, expression so _honest_ that the air gets thick in Merlin's lungs.

He hadn't known what to expect in return—an argument, if Arthur chose to bicker with him, or had become righteously furious with Merlin begrudgingly holding that information about their past over him. Not that Merlin would completely blame him. This verbal attack had been unprovoked, somewhat on Arthur's part. He can't fault Arthur for being unaware of the internal struggle Merlin suffered, amplified now by the passing decades and decades and more.

But an apology, let alone a _heartfelt_ one from such a prideful man, may have staggered Merlin back a step or two. He could barely count on a hand the times Arthur expressed that for Merlin's sake, or at least acknowledged it to the other.

"You're right. I hadn't the faintest of your trials, and I don't believe I do now. You are my friend, Merlin. You…" He clears his throat. "You shouldn't have to be afraid."

The look in Arthur's eyes speak volumes, of regret, of a kind of melancholy that shadows a man's soul.

Merlin never wishes for its appearance, or to be the source of it, though grateful for the reposeful attitude.

_You shouldn't have to be afraid._

The sentence washes over him, like a warm, calming douse of water to his chilled and agitated bones. Words that Merlin, admittedly, longed to hear… but has never been granted from those close to him. Not even from Gaius. The hope for a peaceful kingdom, acceptance of magic and non-magic folks alike, at times remaining unspoken and approached with caution.

"Thank you," Merlin breathes, expression faintly dazed. Head floaty.

His dry lips press together, as his throat clogs up. This is all happening a bit too fast, too soon. This talk is supposed to be for the cottage, not a wind-cold, public street corner where one or two strangers cast them indifferent but obvious stares. Merlin repeats Arthur's clearing of his throat, tapping knuckles to his mouth. Hoping he sounds less fractured than he feels.

"I… you're going through a lot right now. I shouldn't have put this on you," he murmurs. "… I dunno what I was thinking."

"You weren't, but that's hardly out of the ordinary," Arthur says, but it lacks the heat behind it. Instead the corner of his mouth quirks just faintly, if only forcing himself not to become bogged down by the way Merlin desperately tries to pull the situation out of the emotional range. "I'm glad you said something."

A peak of silence drifts between them until a cyclist barrels past them, clipping Merlin's elbow and shouting in their direction what was probably a few curse words.

The warlock huffs at their back, rubbing at his arm, more irritated than in pain. "Tosspot," Merlin says, scowling. "Probably time to go before something else happens."

Arthur narrows his bright blue eyes at the now distant cyclist, moving closer to Merlin instinctively.

"That might be best," he remarks. "You obviously still draw trouble."

With the expected and mild insult, and mercifully gifted so, Arthur knows how to break the atmosphere's strain. Even if Merlin had not appreciated it half as much in his youth, when they had been servant and king. A tad embarrassed, Merlin grins sheepishly, one of his hands touching over his nape.

"Be a bit boring otherwise," he says, witnessing an eye-roll. Merlin rubs at his arm, feeling the stinging fade. "I've had worse. Took blow to the back of the head from Percival once. I got caught stumbling around in the dark—was my own fault."

A reminiscent chuckles leaves Arthur. "It's a miracle you survived. Perhaps that head of yours is even thicker than I thought."

It was true though—Percival had never been known for being gentle during combat, which was a strong skill against enemies, but not so much during training or accidental meet-ups. That strength remained with him until the end. Or at least Merlin liked to believe so. Percival eventually vanished from Camelot, without warning, not long after Arthur's death.

If Arthur was curious about the subject, he never asks.

Merlin leads the way down the street, going through the automated doors of their last destination in town. The inside of the supermarket has colourful, mismatched floor tiles and too-bright florescent lighting. Merlin stops respectfully, unthinkingly for a mother with a pushchair, dragging along a howling four-year-old, before resuming his walk.

He gets yanked backwards before managing another step.

Arthur's hand is like a vice on his forearm. "—Oi!"

"_Merlin_, did you—!" he hisses, and Merlin tugs himself free.

"Did I _what_?"

He follows Arthur's glare to the thick, glass-shielding doors.

"No, Arthur. It's not _magic_." Merlin hisses back, casting a nervous look around them. Thankfully, no one nearby. "Settle down, for god's sake. They do that on their own."

His brows furrow.

Arthur repeats, confused, "They do?"

He shot him a mild, irritated look, regarding Arthur's disdain. It's a eerily _strange_ place to Arthur, no candles, no rat droppings scattered about, he has to remember this.

"The clothing's this way," Merlin tells him, gesturing and continuing down an aisle, inspecting metal racks and hangers of various articles.

A twenty-four sale on _men's wear._ Brilliant luck, Merlin considers, glancing up at the sale sign hanging above the wall. He discovers Arthur peculiarly quiet as the blond man rifles through some graphic tee-shirts on a display, his bewilderment and displeasure evident in a growing frown.

Nothing resembles the fashions of his era. Too-thin fabric, printed with unfamiliar writing and pictures that make absolutely no sense. Once Arthur reaches the sweaters and henleys, the frown lessens.

They're more appealing than undershirts and Arthur's oversized puffy coat.

Merlin's fingers pause over a misplaced woman's cardigan in the mediums. Extra large. Covered in unfortunate amounts of white glitter and stitched with wool on the front to shape a cartoonish kitten. He snorts, holding it up over his head and whistling at Arthur to get his attention.

"Strike your fancy?" Merlin calls out, not bothering to hide the glee, ready to duck any potentially throwable object—purely on instinct. Fortunately, nothing does and Arthur's unamused, faint sneer aims at him across the way. The other man has gone exploring off on his own, but then, he's suddenly in front of Merlin.

Hands sweep over his collar, to Merlin's bare neck, carefully and slowly knotting a child-sized scarf to his neck.

"Much better," Arthur says, inspecting his work. "It suits you."

A flush of pink colouring crawls up Merlin's cheeks.

He stares, _wonderstruck_, as Arthur pretends not to meet his eyes and playfully claps Merlin on the shoulder. Merlin's fingers brush over the wool, bright red material, where the ends need tucking in. It's just enough of it to go round Merlin's throat once.

"Suppose… it does," he answers, breathily.

What was Arthur even playing at…?

Merlin joins him as the other man adds another item to the armful, curiously attempting to gaze his profile. "But we're supposed to be looking for clothes for _you_, not me, remember?"

"You could do with some more judging by that shirt of yours."

A light snort. Merlin shoves two pairs of jeans to Arthur's collection. "Can I leave you to the changing room? It's right behind us. I can pick up ingredients for dinner and some lighter meals while you decide what you want." He adds, hastily, "Just remember to try them on and take them off before exiting, or they'll accuse you of stealing."

He may have been apprehensive about having Arthur do this by himself (though, it had been _his_ idea). Merlin swallows it down in favour of nodding encouragingly at Arthur clutching at the small heap of brand new outfits and wearing a disoriented expression Merlin isn't sure he's aware of letting slip. It quickly dissipates into a vacant one as Arthur marches away.

"_Stay put_ when you're done, I mean it," Merlin reminds him, shouting towards his back. "Don't wander off!"

He stares at the glittery women's cardigan still balled in his hand, exasperated.

"This is a bad idea."

Walking past, a heavily dressed, dark-skinned teenager makes a face at him.

Merlin simpers, turning and politely hanging the cardigan back on the rack before retreating for the opposite end of the shop.

**.**

**.**

He still has the bundle of clothes, pressing it down with both hands to keep it in place.

When Merlin had mentioned _changing room_, Arthur's head swerves to examine the area and the gated doors of the tall, cornered structure. He was being left here to do it himself? Arthur surely could handle it. He wasn't a priss that needed Merlin to dress him each time. He did very well on his own back at Merlin's home.

"Yes, alright," Arthur had muttered, mentally waving off Merlin's reminders. Once alone, he strolls off to the right direction.

A few, opened chambers—_rooms_ lined up in a hallway, reflective surfaces—_mirrors_ within each one. Arthur wavers, but only a moment, before ducking into the first door.

He stares dumbly at the pile in his arms, dropping it on a small, attached bench and shucking through them. One set of breec—_jeans_ are looser, unlike Merlin's; while the other man's were dark and skinny, the ones in Arthur's hands are lighter and feel rough and stretched. Arthur tosses them aside, going for the longer, black pair of trousers.

After inspecting them and silently approving, he moves on to the tuni—_shirts_ and abandons the three or four that don't interest him.

During this, Arthur considers what's happened earlier.

How Merlin behaved when he nearly revealed his name to an utter stranger. His pacing had been rigid and dangerous, and the clouds rising from Merlin's mouth left in sharp, constant puffs. If Merlin was larger and wasn't _Merlin_, then Arthur might have been concerned.

It wasn't truly often Merlin lost his temper in that way, not from Arthur's memories, but in the last weeks of his reign… Merlin had been tense, snappy and his eyes mimicked the dim light they had now. Arthur had almost wished that Merlin would have looked angry.

The saddened, distant emotion in those normally luminous blue eyes were more unnatural than being thrown out of Arthur's era. He had been grilled by enemy leaders, faced Morgana at full power, Uther at peaked rage, but of all the times he had been rendered speechless. He didn't _understand_ what was going through Merlin's head. As much as Arthur had come to terms with the fact that Merlin was a sorcerer, a good one, and had done many things for him over the years, Arthur still couldn't possibly understand it all.

Merlin had been _by his side_ when they sought to execute rogue sorcerers, when they chased after Druids. When he continued to ban magic.

As foolishly sentimental as it sounds, Arthur cherished the friendship between them. Merlin had been the one person he could trust _absolutely_. It was easy to fall back into the mood where he simply bickered and dismissed everything, but after the last encounter, Arthur begins to realise it's hardly appropriate.

The amount of times they had serious conversations of that nature was incredibly limited, and generally Arthur had the power to break it off and go about something else once the point he had wanted to make had gotten across. But then, there was nowhere to escape. Arthur could only stand and watch Merlin's reaction as his words sank in.

This was not his time; there was nowhere else to go. Nothing else _besides_ Merlin, and he planned on _fixing_ what he could.

Starting with having given Merlin a proper scarf.

Arthur could not explain why he had done it besides an impulse, nor could he fathom the reasoning behind it prickling at him.

It was a _scarf_, not one of Merlin's neckerchiefs—tiny, but warm-looking and fit around Merlin's neck. And Merlin _kept_ it, wore it so far, and the prize became a symbol of victory. If it got Merlin to stop looking so melancholy and uptight, Arthur considers it a _victory_.

He hums in disappointment, tossing another shirt. This one being a shabby grey, with designs Arthur isn't sure of, but either way he has it over his head and in the rejected pile.

The rest of the time goes the same way; one shirt discarded, another earning an approving nod and placed on the bench. He doesn't bother trying on all of the trousers. After the first two, Arthur assumes they are all the appropriate size. No point checking.

"Are these really what _pes—people_ wear now?" Arthur shouts, before recalling that Merlin already left.

Most of the garments range from a vibrant red to white to brown, which he decides is best. Even if a couple are distinctly tighter. Merlin had told him multiple times not to wander, but it was only the immediate area, right? He simply plans to stepping out and locating what he needs.

Arthur yanks on the door's knob, almost colliding into a young woman passing by. Her dark blue blouse is identical to others he witnessed on others. However, her mousy hair is pulled up behind her head and tinged with layers of violet and pinks, and there appears to be metallic flower-shaped studs in her ears. She notices him staring.

"… What can I help you with today, sir?"

Everything about her seems _impersonal_—her stony voice, the way her eyes avoid his. Despite this, Arthur shifts and nods importantly.

"Good—yes, I believe I require this in a larger size."

The young woman glimpses the shirt in Arthur's fingers and raises his eyebrows, telling him skeptically, "Noo, you don't."

_That_ is not the answer he expects.

"Excuse me?"

"Not with your colour." With a motion of her slim hand, she turns away, leading. "Come on, I'll show you."

Arthur's bewildered by the fact he has been outright denied his requests, by apparently the _staff_ of this building, but even more so he follows. He's following out of sheer confusion—but not more than fifteen minutes later, Arthur's back in his changing room after being handed another armful, but admittedly, they are _so much better_ than the first.

She walks him back, making a noise of disgust at his puffy jacket hanging up, and returns with a sleek, dark jacket that Arthur is reminded of vaguely—like his old hunting jackets.

He changes back into his old, uglier garments, heeding Merlin's warning about _stealing_, and takes the ones he needs. Arthur rounds the corner outside, before spotting Merlin approaching. His cheeks are a bit rosy and he's a little out of breath, but Arthur disregards it with a half-attempt to lift a shoulder and show Merlin what he has.

**.**

**.**

The last thing Merlin wants is to waste time.

He digs up in fragmented recollections of Camelot that Arthur preferred sausages and chicken, or rather anything that once had eyes and needed to be killed/roasted first.

Tomatoes, yes, but not carrots (minor allergy, Merlin remembers. Which was a pity. Merlin's well-tended vegetable garden had some delicious and sizable carrots during the late summer and autumn.) A couple bags, fruit and the vegetables, find their way into the plastic basket hooked on Merlin's forearm.

He zigzags his way through the rest of the aisles and trolley-pushing occupants, snatching up some healthier alternatives and some not-so healthy—can't wait to see what Arthur thinks of jam doughnuts, heading for the delicatessen. Thankfully, no line to keep him waiting. Merlin chooses slices of cold turkey and other meats, paying for a white bag of them, and hurrying back to the changing room area. Hoping, maybe praying, that Arthur listened.

It may have been a miracle day in general, but he has his wish. Arthur exists his stall in time to meet him.

"What did… you decide on?" Merlin asks cheerfully, though winded.

"Some of the trousers. I discovered less appalling _shirts_."

Merlin examines the dark jacket, taking it with both hands and holding it out a few inches. A partly amused, partly impressed noise comes from his throat. A charcoal grey V-neck, a crisp-white fitted shirts, a maroon-colored button-up, several henleys and undershirts bundled haphazardly still in Arthur's arms along with jeans and trousers.

"Blimey…" he whispers, eyes smiling. "They're brilliant. Did you have help? Not that you can't find clothes on your own but _these_…" Merlin says, patting the heap, "…are good."

Arthur's eyes trail away, to a spot over Merlin's shoulder, and he gazes towards it. One of the female workers, in full uniform, stares right back at Arthur with a friendly grin and a wink.

Maybe even coyly. At least, Merlin reads it as such, the lighthearted nature of his grin paling. It's not very surprising.

Loads of girls found Arthur attractive in their era. Knights and lords as well, though he doubts Arthur knew of the gossip in the servant's quarters or the kitchens or during the knights' training practices to themselves.

An agitated sensation wraps around his insides, worming and nauseatingly slink coating the lining of Merlin's esophagus.

"Looks like you made a friend." He nudges Arthur's arm awkwardly, to get his attention once more, smile tight at the corners of his mouth. Arthur's blue eyes narrow, perplexity evident. The sentence hangs to die and Merlin feels, for a very brief moment, like disappearing into the mismatched floor paneling. "Dunno, being stupid," he mutters.

Merlin gazes back to the aisle, curtly pulling away the clothes from Arthur and moving back, food-basket included.

Arthur blinks, lips parting, as words form in protest, "No, I'm—"

It's a flat attempt, and Merlin's eyes peer over warily at a now baffled-looking Arthur.

Shite.

At the till, his head throbs loudly, agonizingly.

Next to him, Arthur remains silent, watching as Merlin arranges the groceries on the moving belt, lips pulled into a studious frown.

Merlin snaps to, hazed, when the cashier points noticeably to the red, child's scarf round Merlin's neck.

"Oh," he says, apologetically. The smart thing would have to untie it and hand it over for scanning, but the label end is already exposed, where Arthur had forgotten to tuck it in. So, Merlin leans forward over the checkout, fingers holding out the label tag, straining for his balance as he does, and raising the eyebrows of the bemused, irritated employee.

When it scanned, Merlin leans out, flailing a moment to straighten himself as a gangly mess of limbs and feeling a large hand grasp at the back of his collar.

"Stop being an idiot," Arthur mutters, letting Merlin's jacket go.

"_You're_ an idiot," Merlin retorts softly, face going red.

He knows perfectly well he's being an bumbling fool, about everything, about the men's section and when he left the other man a loss at Merlin's behaviour. It's just… he can't explain it, why Arthur and one of the shop workers bothered him suddenly. It doesn't make sense!

He _shouldn't_ care! No one's getting hurt. Nothing's out-of-the-ordinary.

Why does it matter that she probably finds his clueless attitude _attractive_ and wanted to help? She was doing her job, Merlin rationalises.

And, Arthur is naturally a handsome bloke—y'know, when he isn't acting like a complete and utter prat, and being ungodly thickheaded, AND being severely belligerent to putting together "I was" and "wrong" let alone apologising to Merlin (tonight, however, seems to be a special case).

He's _aware_ of the person Arthur has been and is now, or at least believes so.

His jaw sets, clenching. Fantastic—now Merlin is conversing in his mind, trying to reason away his petty and short jealousy about Arthur and some random woman.

_Arthur_, a stinkin' clotpole—who was too busy criticising the modern age he had been dropped into to even realise what was happening. And Merlin's dearest friend—who got on his damned nerves a greater percentage than idling his brain with romantic and impractical notions.

Not that… Merlin had those often. Romantic notions about Arthur. Involving Arthur.

Not… recently anyway.

He pays the total, as the cashier recites it, with the notes from his envelope. Wistfully, Merlin glances down at it empty.

"Is that it?" Arthur questions, impatiently.

"That's it then," he says briefly, walking around for the groceries. "Time to head home."

The look of _joyous relief_ is noted.

"Finally," Arthur groans out, following out of the exit. "I thought I'd never be out of this miserable establishment."

"_Miserable establishment_?" Merlin laughs, brightly. "Do you _not_ remember the bazaars of Mercia?"

"At least they dressed …" He flounders for the correct phrasing, gesturing to all of Merlin, "_Normally_."

"You'll get used to it, trust me."

As he passes off half of the plastic bags to Arthur, their arms dropping, the blond man announces, "I _am_ trusting you, Merlin."

Heat sends a twinge up Merlin's chest.

"I know," he tells Arthur, solemnly.

**.**

**.**

**TBC...**

**.**

**.**

* * *

><p><em>Update on my profile about the next chapter installment! I'm so happy you are enjoying this story. :) Please leave me any thoughts!~<em>


	4. Chapter 4

.

.

Once they are outside the automated doors, feeling the immediate sting of cold and heavy weight of the groceries for the journey, Arthur wishes he had zipped up his jacket.

"I didn't realise the new times made me your servant," he gripes, towing his own bags along.

Merlin bows his head, fixing his eyes down intentionally. The enchantment barely meet his ears.

"_Lihtnen_."

His magic flares his irises gold for milliseconds before Merlin straightens his back, swinging the bags as if they contained nothing.

At the sliver of genuine outrage in Arthur's frown, at having to _carry bags_ (for god's sake), he becomes acutely reminded of the sixth century. About Arthur going on about the littlest disturbances to his peace… mainly anything to do with Merlin drove him batty. The hiccup incident brings a fond and spontaneous curve to Merlin's lips.

"So I see things haven't changed much with you, after all," he shoots back. Cheeky. "You're still a bone-idled toad."

Arthur huffs indignantly and mutters a word suspiciously resembling 'cheater'.

Merlin lets the disgruntled word go, unaffected by the accusation visibly, but his gut doing somersaults and a powerful sense of déjà vu colliding to him.

He… he had told Arthur, the few days before his passing, about the day they first met. How Merlin used sorcery to avoid being earnestly massacred by a heavy, looming mace and an irate prince. And, Arthur in the moment, bleary-eyed and limp against a stump of wood, accused him of cheating, but without malice. His king only looked tired, eyes darkening from their previous, grand blue, his skin pallid and bloodless.

How long ago that had been…

The envelope with his pay packet tumbles out onto the ground, along with another sealed envelope.

Eyebrows bunching, Merlin gathers them up, shifting his bags into one hand and glancing at Arthur's perplexed expression as the other man halts. "Ms. Thomas must have slipped it in while I was talking," he says, fingers grazing over the scrawl of '_Emrie_', flipping it over and cracking the envelope open.

A simple, stock-titled "**Happy Birthday**" card. It's colourfully printed with a generic message inside about warm wishes and slices of yummy cake to consume on this festive occasion. Instinctively, Merlin's hand raises over his grinning mouth, his eyes crinkling.

"She remembered…" he murmurs, enthralled by the kind gesture.

Arthur gazes over him, heart and throat both tickling in a mix of emotions when he processes the shy joy earned by the small gesture. It feels oafish to ask, seeing there wasn't truly an 'Emrie', but it's not entirely his fault that Arthur is unsure about the dates after miraculously pulling himself out of a lake.

"Today's your birthday?"

Merlin's fingers drum over the card, as Arthur's softly-spoken question floats dimly into his hearing.

He nods.

"Yes. Well—it's both mine and Em—" A throb of panic nearly cuts Merlin off, as it seizes the walls of his throat. He corrects himself, repeating, "Emrie Uhas. We're the same person." A doubtful, pointed stare. "Uhm, I'm the old man who works full-time at her apothecary. I'm taking time off. She's only met me as myself once and I've told her I was his great grandson."

If the parallels in wording had been marked, Arthur hadn't let it show. But, in fact, it hadn't; the last few days he could remember, were slurred and crumbled. Like his dreams and his time in the water, it all was bogged down, only a speck or two being visually clear. One being the reveal of Merlin's magic. The dragon in the fire, the show of _authority_ and glow in Merlin's eyes. Those flashes Arthur could remember, not all of the dialogue between.

At the mention of an old man, Arthur's mind tries to curiously piece together an image of Merlin, bearded and wizened.

What would _that_ look like…? He may like to know in the future.

Merlin's upper lip worries under his teeth, as he muses, "If you really think about it, it's your birthday, too, yeah?"

The idea captures Arthur fully by surprise, and it becomes difficult to breath for a second. His legs stiffen, acting as if they need recovery from a blow.

Merlin admits, shrugging noncommittally, "I mean, I've… never shared a birthday with someone else. Met loads of people while I was travelling but didn't knew how old they were or their birthdays. Seemed a bit depressing, really. Thinking they'd all grow old but … I'd still be the same to everyone else."

Though he couldn't put a stopper on his mouth, never really could when prominent emotions swell inside him, Merlin shields away the obvious hurt in his countenance, with a bolder albeit forced laugh.

He closes a fist, reaching out and bumping his knuckles gingerly to Arthur's puffy-jacketed arm. "We'll have to hurry back and reheat a dinner at this rate."

Arthur doesn't budge at the nudge.

"Lovely," he answers, rolling his eyes and casting a side-long look as they move on.

It hasn't escaped his notice _how_ young Merlin appears, how alive, but the reminder that Merlin has _outlived_ so many is rather terrifying. The cheerful and ever-nosy Merlin he knew doesn't bother to know persons he meets any longer. But, Arthur can't help but to wonder if it is due to the matter of outliving that no longer holds a personal appeal to his companion.

The town's sidewalks come dusk are busier with activity. Many bright-eyed teenagers still mingle with brighter-eyed young adults yelling over in their small, crowding packs. A man in a fur-lined hood approaches and hands out fliers. Merlin scoops up one, unthinkingly and not bothering to glance it over as he shoves it into one of his bags.

It's overwhelming to walk the roads, but it vaguely reminds Arthur of the lower town. The sights may be different, but people bustling about he can deal with. Arthur had been used to his subjects moving out of his way, and it's safe to say that is no longer the case as a man runs into Arthur's shoulder, unapologetic.

He keeps closer to Merlin, remaining silent but observant as they trek the dark woods.

By the time they enter the cottage, the sun has long set, blanketing the sky in stars and deep, cosmic blues. Merlin waves his hand towards the parlour's hearth, flames rearing up and sprouting. "Lock the door and place the clothes on the bed, will you?" he asks, civilly, as Arthur joins him through the doorway, taking what he needs.

He doesn't protest at the command, glad to sense the fire's warm melting the numbness from his muscles. Arthur disappears into the next room, peeking into the bag and dumping out the clothes and spreading them out in what he assumes is an orderly fashion. Arthur's no serving boy, so he leaves the rest of the task to his companion.

In the kitchen, Merlin quickly stows away the refrigerated and frozen items in their proper slots, and the rest in the tiny larder.

A nervous but lively energy radiates from him, making the warlock bounce on his heels a little as he unpeels and slices oranges, thumb holding each fruit in places as a thin knife curls away the hard rinds.

The slightly pounding headache at Merlin's temples is easier to distinguish at the knowledge of not eating. Add on the unexpected reappearance of Arthur and having to drag his arse back here, and the mental exhaustion of… everything. Let alone how Arthur is faring. Even if he isn't keen on sharing.

Arthur pops in, leaning lightly against the entrance's door-frame, as he watches him.

"It's not a royal feast, but it will fill your stomach," Merlin announces, shooing Gaius as the feline leaps nimbly on the table, eyeing the food.

Despite being shooed, Gaius purrs quietly, nuzzling himself to Merlin's ankles. He scrapes together a plate of cold turkey sandwiches, tomatoes and lettuce and onions and plain cheese included. A bottle of catsup and mustard just in case. Juicy, peeled oranges in a circular bowl beside the plate.

"I've survived your cooking before—I can do so now." Arthur hums thoughtfully, wiping a hand over his face.

"Help yourself," Merlin offers, tilting his head.

With a pointed, mild look, Arthur pulls his plate over. He bites the sandwich, chewing slowly to begin with, savouring the first meal Arthur's had in… a while. Not an a complaint at the quality. Relief filters through Merlin's nervous energy, waning it a fraction.

Merlin taps his hands against his thighs, feeling the scratchy fabric of denim on his palms before grabbing his own plate. He tucks in, taking several, big bites into his sandwich. He nearly forgets to use the condiment bottles and stops what he's doing, husking the top layer of sandwich and flips open the catsup bottle. No doubt this appears strange to Arthur, squeezing a red and apparently slimy substance onto a perfectly good meal. But Arthur also doesn't know fuck all about a cracking turkey sandwich and can sod off.

Another bite demands to be taken, smearing a bit of the tomato sauce on the edge of Merlin's chin.

"I hope you have mead," Arthur says. "I could use a drink."

Merlin's shoulders convulse with a stifled laugh. He wrinkles his nose, abhorred by the phantom stench of the nasty drink. Never again.

"Sorry, no," he says. Merlin grins, facing Arthur with hands poised on the counter. All raw enigma. "Can do you one better."

Arthur's jaw slows chewing. A singular eyebrow raise giving a '_can-you-really_?'.

The other man crouches down, yanking open a cabinet door at knee-level, and holding up a large, clear bottle of vodka. With evident glee on his face, Merlin stands, grabbing onto the two glass tumblers he set out for them and pouring them full.

"The taste of alcohol has improved over hundreds of years, fortunately." He hands Arthur his, fingertips grasping at the top of the glass. "Cheers."

The first mouthful of spirits, after being voluntarily abstinent for two hundred years, burns at his sinuses. Merlin cringes, patting his chest.

Arthur grunts, waiting for Merlin to toss back his drink first before doing the same and chuckling at the reaction.

"Still have trouble holding your drink?"

But whatever he expects as Arthur swallows, it certainly isn't this. It's like a burning trail, the smell itself awful as Arthur fights down a cough, face twisting up. Merlin, however, spaces out on the way pale pink lips touch around the rim of the glass. He takes another long swig, tipping his head back with neck arched, hoping the dash would cloud his senses.

"What the _hell_ is that?" he asks, voice going high.

"That," Merlin gestures with his chunk of sandwich left, voice muffled with turkey and the dressings jammed against the inside of his cheek, "was probably more alcohol you've ever had in one go." He chews a little before gulping down the mouthful with audible gusto.

"Might want to take it slow," Merlin suggests with a taunting, subtle raise of his dark eyebrows. "Y'know… since you're new to this…"

No matter how strong the drink is, Arthur feels as if it's a downright lie. Even if his mind buzzes just faintly, he refuses to admit that Merlin was right. He has downed plenty of goblets and mugs ten times bigger than this puny glass and the insinuation that he had to take it slow.

"New?" Arthur challenges, facial expression switching incredulous to proud determination. "Just because I didn't spend all my time at the tavern doesn't mean I can't hold my liquor."

Merlin held back a snort.

"I spent as much time in the tavern as you did taking lessons about not being a…" he pauses a moment, before smiling wide, "clay-brained, knotty-padded… pigeon-egg."

"Perhaps the time would have spent wisely coming up with better insults," Arthur replies, lettuce and turkey cramming into his gob. He dismisses Merlin's protests. Whether or not he believes him is still to be determined. But he's fairly impressed by Merlin's ability to continuing drinking.

The blond man tosses the glass back, not one to be made a fool of, this time drinking more than the sips he managed previously. It's not a full glass, of course, but it sure as hell feels like it.

There's still the scalding quality of alcohol but Arthur feels himself growing accustomed to it. He lowers the tumbler glass, glancing up at Merlin and blinking out the surge of dizziness. Instead of allowing it to show, he cocks his chin up, haughtily.

Was this turning into a drinking contest…?

Because, Merlin hopes it isn't. Proving alcohol tolerance levels doesn't fare well. He downs the last mouthful of spirits, managing to not wince, getting a pleasantly floaty sensation in his head. He tipped a little more into his own glass, and then fetches out the whisky—Laphroaig.

"If you really want something that will put hair on your chest…"

Arthur huffs out a laugh, swallowing down a new amount of the whisky. "What was that about taking it _slooow_?" he asks, his last word slurring a little. It's an honest mistake.

"You. You taking it slow," Merlin says, looking entertained as his companion doesn't exhibit signs of wooziness. "Which you clearly care more about getting tanked, but, before that—" He slaps his palms on the table with enthusiasm, snatching up his own glass of malt whisky and turning for the kitchen entrance.

Arthur rolls his eyes, cheeks warming, gaze pointedly stating '_I am not_' though in reality, the idea has merit.

Yet apparently Merlin has other plans. He watches him exit, getting the notion Arthur's meant to follow and huffs a sigh, refilling his glass with spirits. Fine.

Heading towards the lounge room, Merlin shuffles on his toes as he kicks off his buckled, hiking boots, knocking them against the corridor wall. He pads the rest of the way in his thermal socks, for an instant raking his fingernails into the shaggy mop of what no-one would consider any formal hairdo, at a small itch. Merlin won't let his hair go past a certain length, but grew it out a bit, just enough that his ears begin to look like they aren't sticking right out of his head. The page-boy haircut isn't meant to look flattering. On anyone.

Arthur sulks after him, quietly as he can with his boots, eyes scanning the parlour.

Candles scattered in the background flicker to life, wicks alight, as Merlin enters. The half glass of Merlin's whisky touches noiselessly to the surface of the floor as he stretches down, to rest it there, and Merlin's right hand goes for his jumper. Once Arthur enters, he's suddenly glad he has filled his glass. Merlin, always clumsy and uncoordinated, bends over and untangles his arms from his jumper—or perhaps it's the other way around. All he knew is that Merlin faces the other direction and Arthur's eyes are glued to him.

With not a lot of finesse, due to his "enormous buffoonery" Arthur often complained on hunts, Merlin yanks up the rest of the thickly-woven, argyle-patterned with both hands, pulling it over his head. The second layer of clothing beneath—a form-fitting, black shirt—rides up with the escaping jumper, displaying a couple inches of bare, lean skin on his midriff.

Leaving the only colour on Merlin being the stark, jeweled red of the tucked scarf round his neck and the fathomless peculiarity of blue to his irises.

He snaps back to attention when the shirt falls back into place, and Arthur's eyes avert his friend as he sucks in a breath. The glass feels heavy in his hand, and Arthur quickly takes advantage of it and brings it to his lips. The alcohol trickles down his throat now accompanied by a warmth rising in his chest, one that had made him blissfully forget.

Tossing the jumper onto the couch and plucking up a nearby blanket, Merlin spreads it down on the floorboards, sitting cross-legged on it. He motions Arthur forward, to be seated in front of him. "We had dinner. Now comes the entertainment."

"Are you going to juggle?" Arthur questions, lips quirking into a smile at the effortless appearance of a familiar, cheeky grin. He lowers his tumbler, and then himself into a sit.

Merlin's arms lift, his hands cupping together between both men.

"Go on," he murmurs, nodding encouragingly.

Arthur isn't sure what he means, eyeing Merlin warily.

Taking the undoubtedly vague hint, he slowly reaches up, covering Merlin's hands with his own. There's a drumming in his ribcage, one he blames for the nearness, because Arthur doesn't know another explanation for this. Not really. Arthur's tempted to ask. But he simply can take the punches the best he can, and follow Merlin the similar way Merlin always followed him. There's comfort in the combined warmth of their hands.

What Merlin can only describe as a jolt of blissful heat ripples over him, carrying itself into his blood, humming and thrumming with his magic. Merlin's eyelids quiver shut, as he draws in a loud, sharp breath through his teeth. It was, was—_Arthur_.

Merlin's spindly hands drift apart, revealing an impressive cluster of butterflies fluttering into existence, surrounding the pair of men, touching the ceiling and sailing mid-air in ethereal grace.

Gold and reds they are, with whisper-soft wings that brush their fingertips, and leaving low, glimmering trails where they fly.

Arthur stares down at his hands in alarm, jolting away in surprise. He looks on in stunned awe, rendered speechless, as they dance in the air.

The brightness and delight of Merlin's grin supernovas.

This is a far better trick than magicking some wooden, painted balls or chicken eggs in his hands, if he does say so himself. Arthur's reactions are well worth it—the initial and annoyed confusion ranging to downright shock, and finally, that _awe_ in his expression. Not fear.

Merlin never wanted to witness such an awful emotion from Arthur, about his true nature, ever again. If he can help it.

Arthur's hands had jumped away, releasing Merlin's own, and Merlin takes no offensive as he gazes at his companion eyeing the glamoured butterflies. Especially grateful for the softened frown. He doesn't expect a round of applause or a compliment. But causing Arthur to be at a total loss of words Merlin interprets as a small, personal victory. And keeps it to himself, thank-you-very-much. No need to spoil it.

It would be untrue if Merlin were to say this isn't one of the _best_ days of nearly two-thousand years of living.

A gut full of food, warm and safe from the elements, not hiding his magic, head spinning in languid motion and heart gladdened with the amiable and welcomed company in his home of… a close friend. But that definition alone can't settle it, can it? Merlin had lost close friends: Will, Lancelot, Gwaine, others. But he moves on, after some time. Merlin hadn't shut himself up in the Crystal Cave for them, willing to descend into utter madness and the darkness in his violent grieving.

He hadn't waited for centuries for a flash of a red cape in the murky water, for a glimpse of the summer-blue eyes he knew so well—even if it needed to be on a complete stranger's face. Eyes that knew the weight of the crown … that knew love and honour, compassion and mercy.

.

.

Never in his life did Arthur believe that magic would come to be one of the solid, normal aspects of his life. Not in the slightest, and Arthur wonders if he truly ever would be.

This is a _difficult_ change, embracing sorcery, but the more he watches the butterflies, the more he wonders if he can. It's beautiful, _calming_—much unlike sorcery he has encountered.

Magic has taken both of his parents, constantly threatened his kingdom, his men, his people. It lead Morgana down a path that lost him a sister. He has known nothing else besides sorrow and the evils of sorcery, something his father warned him of—yet this soft act of Merlin's does not cause harm.

The airborne creatures make the air glow, however brief, and Arthur is, frankly, out of clever words. Not only because of the sheer absurdity, but because he is here and simply a watcher. That it is _Merlin_ orchestrating this.

Arthur flashes back to the hazy memories of the dragon in the fire, the orange embers burning brightly as it danced in the form of a small beast while they hid in the woods. It was in that moment that Arthur's life changed, and even though he was dying, that was the occurrence he remembered most vividly.

The fact that it had been… Merlin. The man now in front of him had been his most loyal servant and friend, his own devotion outlasting even some of the knights. Arthur had come to cherish his friendship over that, and now as he sits here, blue eyes on blue, he realises he still does. Merlin, after all this time, is still here for him.

It brings another swell of emotion Arthur can't quite place.

One of the carnation-red butterflies circles Merlin's head. His voice croaks, drawing Arthur's focus as their eyes meet, "More often than not, magic is what is inherent. It reveals a part of you." Merlin says kindly, extending out his forefinger as the large butterfly lands on his knuckle, "It's your rebirth they symbolize, Arthur."

The butterfly's colouring transforms, ever so slowly, a pale, elegant blue creeping over the red the longer it remains on Merlin's finger.

It twitches its new wings, taking flight and hovering into Arthur's airspace. He swallows, holding in a breath, and holding his ground. When it touches Arthur's cheek, warmth seeps gently, mimicking Merlin's faint heat it encountered. His lips part slightly.

"Your magic symbolizes me?" he murmurs, looking back at Merlin studiously, lifting a hand.

Arthur's exploring, prodding finger compels the pale blue butterfly to move, joining the others as their luminescence fades, edges opaque as the simple enchantment begins to dull. The movement, to no surprise, scares it away and his finger hovers momentarily before slowly drifting back to his side.

He blearily draws his attention back to Merlin. Though Arthur does his best to pointedly ignore it, his mind lacks clarity. He noticed it in the kitchens, becoming more tolerant to the alcohol Merlin offered, but nobly and stubbornly, he pushes though. Speaking nothing of the pool of warmth curling in his stomach, pleasantly.

.

.

If this proves one thing, and only one thing, it is that he still has Arthur's utmost _trust_—in the face of something his king has little comprehension of, other than knowing magic brought him sorrow. Conflict and war and death to follow.

But if Merlin could see to it, and he _would_, those beliefs would no longer prove to be true. He would show Arthur the _good_ his magic could bring, what joy and protection and life that followed stronger in its making. A swell of determination, though hazed in his spinning thoughts, climbs in his chest.

Merlin wets his lips, pressing them together, before taking up his drink and consuming another gulp.

"If it had been that easy, trust me—I would've had you back long before this," he says, lowly, honestly. Merlin's eyes flick over him. His skin feels flushed dark, too-warm. "This still strange, I know it does. Being exposed to magic. I would never do you harm, I promise."

He needs. Something. Something urges at the back of his mind and Arthur is _here_. So close.

Merlin waves his glass, a bit too clumsily if he had been concentrating, unsteady when his free hand slides in front of him. Not sure what _need_ demands to be answered.

Arthur, however, proceeds to tip back his drink, listening in.

"I know," he states, blandly, out of thought and effort to keep his voice steady. Arthur isn't sure what else to say. He knows Merlin wouldn't. That's a given.

Whisky sloshes at Merlin's jerky movement, spilling onto his black tee-shirt.

"Bugger," he curses out loud, down at himself, face wrinkling with mild discomfort. "_Sodding_—"

"I told you, you still can't hold your drink after all these years."

Arthur's laugh sounds hearty and amused but dulled, like Merlin hears it from a distance. The pounding from the earlier headache weakens to a twinge, flitting with his pulse. Without both layers of his shirts, Merlin should have felt a chill. Even with the roaring fire. But his limbs weigh heavy, and ignite with rushing heat from the alcohol in his system.

Merlin places his tumbler down, scrambling onto his feet with only a faint wobble on his way up. He strips his top off without a word, turning his naked, lean back to Arthur. The brand-new scarf unraveling with it.

Without spinning thoughts and a spinning head—and feeling _much_ too content with the entire world—Merlin may have had second thoughts about what he just did.

The black tee-shirt and child-sized, red scarf bunches up in Merlin's hands before he flings them onto the settee, grumbling. His shoulder-blades flex, tendons and muscles undulating against, unmarked, white skin. Unmarked—with the exception of the Pendragon crest tattoo, enlarged to fit the width of his upper back, and a deep ebony-colour.

Arthur's amused tone dies.

He sets his own drink down, the clink muffled by the blanket covering the floor. Arthur's hands use the settee to aid himself in hauling up. The ratty old thing creaking in protest to the weight. The blond man sways, but steps forward, not bothering to address Merlin before clamping his hands on Merlin's shoulders. His head tilts, studying the crest up close.

His family crest.

Merlin has a retort about Arthur's snide comment on holding his booze, or truthfully not holding it very well… but his words dissipate into estranged nothing before fully forming. Warm, firm hands on him. Merlin's body shivers, finally reacting to outside stimuli, gooseflesh running over his skin where Arthur isn't touching.

"Arthur—" he groans, oddly throaty as the name leaves out.

A razor-flash instinct commands him to shove off the other person and Merlin wrestles it down, far, far away in favour of emptying the silence.

"You have my crest on your back." Perhaps it was meant to be an incredulous question, but it _sounds_ certain. As if Arthur were simply naming objects in the room.

His crest. Not Uther Pendragon's. _King Arthur'_s royal crest.

Any witty remark Merlin could have easily countered with, any ambiguous or hesitant reply to why he would voluntarily go through the clinical, blank hours of a near drilling agony—it drops out of him. "I'm yours… until the day I die," he whispers. The strong, callused hands on Merlin's shoulders tighten, almost crushing. "It made sense… why I wanted it."

Merlin's words resound clearly, pink lips suddenly dry and Arthur's tongue darting out.

The other man inhales. Before realizing quite what he means to do, his thumb begins tracing the lines and patterns, Arthur's motions subconscious, by heart. His stomach knots, heat spreading all throughout Arthur's steadily weighed body, and akin to the sensation of blossoming.

"You're mine?" he murmurs. The tone holds power, the type that belong to royalty, the type that demands answers.

Yet, there is Arthur, Merlin's friend, and the soft and powerful blends together. Cautionary thoughts gone. The crest, Merlin, both so familiar to him, yet combined is new territory. It's enough for Arthur to hold onto, and he latches onto the solace and commitment Merlin offers.

The last of the glamoured butterflies twirl in cloudy vision, lambent and air-borne, before disappearing entirely. Leaving the low glow of the fire and singular wicks of the candles.

A rationalised portion drowning in Merlin's alcohol-idled brain makes a last-ditch effort to urge him to step away from the intimate moment, to excuse himself and get some rest. Allow Arthur to do the same, and to sleep off the obvious intoxication. The day has gone on long enough; they are exhausted, and no harm can result from going through with that decision.

But Merlin feels drawn, moth to flame, relishing the hypnotic, rhythmic and purposeful drag of Arthur's thumb soft against his flesh. Presumably mapping each dark line.

Was it curiosity… or another sentiment? Did the crest bring Arthur a fresh sense of attachment to his memories? Did he think Merlin completely daft, the fool he had been under the impression his servant had always been? And did Merlin deserve to carry his symbol, unable to save Arthur from their prophecy, even after protecting Camelot with every living fiber of being and tearing out his own heart along with its ruin?

_You're mine?_

Arthur's hand relocks, steadying to Merlin's left shoulder, as the other hand lightly pushes against the knobs of Merlin's spine, dragging now in a downward motion. As if Arthur's voice has a magical undercurrent of its own, Merlin succumbs, veins flaring excitement—the sensuality of it, through laboured and cracked, and bearing a hint of possessive nature.

A shuddery gasp falls from Merlin's opening lips, head slanting backwards. Blue eyes shutting.

"If you still want me," he says. "Then I am."

"Yes," Arthur replies, drowsily, his hand tracing the crest-tattoo stopping.

A warm swell of cheek over the shell of Merlin's ear, as Arthur's head inclines his.

"I do."

It's an answer Merlin doesn't need to search for, deep down. Perhaps he has always known. They were opposites in many ways, he and Arthur. But belonged to the same destiny, to the same road that led them further and further into the tangled chaos of the past, and shared in their joys and pains.

Merlin's hand rises, once immobile and clenching at his side. They _need_ each other. His knuckles graze, for an instant, over the hairless space behind Arthur's ear. Pale, spindly fingers arch apart—Merlin's fingertips smoothing up, up through strands of bright blond. The breath in Merlin's lungs comes harshly out his nostrils, once trapped.

He could blame the close, undeniable warmth of another person, the need for Arthur (deep down; Merlin knew) and the awful, thwarting nature of the whisky. But all the blame Merlin could take upon himself, in time.

The warlock makes a soft, reluctant noise, starting to turn himself around to face Arthur. Merlin's head spins a little harder, at the motion. It registers that Arthur's palm still touching him falls away from his shoulder. He hates the loss, but refuses to glance away, not long from those eyes. On a pale pink mouth flushing with colour.

As Arthur's fingers carefully and gently mapped Merlin's skin, he returns the courtesy, uniting the lonely spaces between them when Merlin's saliva-dampened lips press to Arthur's.

.

.

It he had been in his right mind, Arthur might not have been where he was.

His hands would not be pressed against heated, bare skin. He would not be feeling the prickle of dark, short hair against him, or perhaps enjoy it as freely. He would not have allowed himself to be put in this position in which his thoughts were stretched and tossed to the wind. It doesn't take away the notion that he is, and Arthur feels disoriented.

_Enchanted_, really—both words being poor choices.

When Arthur's hands landed on the darkly inked emblem, in his mind he knew nothing could be more fitting. No one deserved to wear his sigil more than Merlin. The warmth that overtook his body and mind were currents underneath his skin, and every time his fingertips ran along Merlin's, Arthur could feel shocks churning in him.

As an exhale shudders out of him, Arthur is more at a loss. He misses touch, the feel of Merlin.

Then he has crystal blue eyes, framed with long lashes, and a rosy face. And lips.

Merlin's lips are damp, plush. His mouth responds of its own accord, feeling and not thinking, pressing up tightly in the gesture of returning the kiss. There's a sense of desperation, of need, to _not let go_, to have one moment of bliss that he so craves. It's uncoordinated, but it's perfect.

But the moment ends far too soon.

Before the heat coiling in his stomach has a chance to expand like the current of energy under his skin, reality hits. Cold, icy like a sword cutting his heart. And just like that, it's gone.

Arthur tugs his head back, eyes wide open, reacting as if he had touched a burning bit of coal. His expression contorts, lips glistening.

"I'm s—sorry," he slurs, feet carrying him a couple steps back. Arthur ducks his head, running a hand over his mouth. What had he just done?

.

.

It has been a very long time since Merlin refused a less wary approach.

Too long since he has shut away a familiarised aspect to what Merlin had no alternative to mold himself into now, to survive a millennia in a world of mortality as the one who does not share it—a standoffish, hollow mimicry of what he has once been.

The boy who wore his smiles with pride and genuine feeling, who would do _anything_ for a needy human being (an audience with the King, or Arthur's warm meals, or the shirt off his back). Even facing death and those more influential than him.

That boy did not care. That boy faced his fears with conviction and steel in his bones, with a strong sense of justice.

Merlin has watched the Thirty Years' war, disease taking the lives of hundreds of mercenaries. He had been there for the burning of Joan of Arc; Henry the VIII's tyranny and his blood feud against the women unlucky enough to seek his bed-company; uprising and assassinations of kings and queens and peaceful world leaders; the London raids and the frantic, horrified screams of his country—Arthur's country—quaking the very foundation beneath his feet.

But he has not always been silent and passive in the changing of the world. Merlin fought as a pilot in WWII, an unremarkable foot soldier in Hundred Days, a medic in the Korean and Gulf war. Struggled with the ancient, dark magic of the Black Death and eventually tricked the warlock responsible into being magically shut away, permanently sealed inside an oak tree along the borders of _Forêt de Vidame_—until the end of all time.

After a whole history, eras and eras passing before Merlin's sharp, tired eyes; after losing each person dear to him, one-by-one fading to ashes, he could not let anyone in.

To allow himself the courageous fortune to become hurt once more.

He took shelter in the woods of once fair Camelot, in the last twenty years, in an abandoned cottage that he fancied calling a "home" once in a while. He gave himself a new identity and an occupation that required extensive knowledge from Gaius that never quite left Merlin, and pretended that he was satisfied with this new chapter.

And then, with a lakeside visit he had only planned for the early morning hours—with a fistful of velvet-soft, white lilies clutching in Merlin's fingers, the numbed illusion shattered.

Expecting no less from him, Arthur had to _ruin_ Merlin's plans, like the inconsiderate, stuffed prat he was, and took a swift but unintended kick at Merlin's iron-strength walls, ripping them away and leaving him vulnerable. More vulnerable than Merlin's sanity would beg him to grant anyone.

If there was anything who could manage it, only would it be Arthur, bright-eyed but very tankard.

Thrill, pure and electric, overcomes him. It settles in the centre of Merlin's rib-cage.

The pressure of Arthur's lips keeps soft, but it's _there_. He can feel the escaping drift of air, of Arthur's breathing. Merlin's fingers locking in blond hair, slides out. His hand grasps onto Arthur's broad shoulder. Their lips do not part, and just as Merlin's lips press again, basking in another's warmth, Arthur's _gone_.

His companion gazes over him, looking alarmed as he staggers back (and it feels like miles, miles and miles).

It may as well have been a bucket of winter water that douses every spark of contented heat.

(What had… he done?)

Merlin dimly hears Arthur's apology, with a compulsory shake of his head. His voice coming out stiff.

"No, I'm—"

'Sorry' doesn't feel right, sitting on Merlin's tongue, flat and timber-dry.

When Arthur's head ducks away, Merlin rubs his fingers over his slowly burning face, over his eyelids. "Take the bed tonight," he mumbles, head bowed to the floor, dark bangs tumbling forward. "I'll have the couch. We'll talk in the morning."

The stiffness does not leave Merlin's voice, but the rigour of the order is new, though faint in his mumbling.

.

.

He can't even say anything to Merlin.

Arthur's hand stays latched across his mouth, tightly restraining himself, from creating more grief and regret. He forces him to not pay attention to the newly swollen quality on his mouth, or the damp feeling left after Merlin's. He can hear the thud of his heart beating quickly, but it's muffled.

Much like his judgment, apparently.

Merlin began to speak but he cuts himself off, and Arthur feels grateful for the subject dismissal. For now, at least.

He grimaces before giving a short nod, alright with the order. He's too drunk and too willing to leave to pick a fight. Arthur doesn't make a noise; he removes his hand, fingers curling into tense fists before exiting the parlour with as much of a hurried stride as he can muster.

As soon as he's out in the corridor, the thin air of composure he holds onto begins to collapse.

No. No, not yet.

Arthur roughly bites on his lower lip, schooling his facial features. He has to be inside the bedroom first.

And he does make it, slamming the door behind him a bit too loudly. He doesn't bother changing out of his clothes. The moment Arthur was alone finally is when the air knocks out of him. He stumbles towards the bed, though he can't tell if it's the alcohol or the intense wave of emotion striking him.

The too-soft sheets can't protect him from the painful beating of his heart, his ragged breathes or the tight coil around his lungs. They can't fight off the cold running down Arthur's spine. He lays on his back, head lolling to the side as blue, hazy eyes screw up, and Arthur pushes his hands over his face.

It's no use. He can still feel the phantom sensation of Merlin's shoulders on his fingertips. Warm, insisting lips on his.

The bed and its sheets only further ingrain the immediacy of those reminders—they smell like him; earthy, with a faint hint of smoke. Sweet, heavy flowers.

Arthur lets out a groan of frustration, legs pulling up towards his body until his knees flop sideways. Gwen. God, _Guinevere_—he can see her, his beautiful Queen, but no longer feels her touch, or hear her voice. Only Merlin's. Arthur's eyes squeeze together, his lips frowning. After a long moment, he relaxes, uncurling his body.

It's nearly impossible, but after what seems to be hours of agonizing memories and emotions, battling inside him, Arthur's mind rests.

.

.

Arthur's footsteps disappear.

Merlin swallows a rising, painful lump in his throat, stubbornly combating with his own imbalance as he tugs up the blanket from the floor and plops down on ratty, threadbare cushions. The quilted blanket maneuvers round Merlin's bare shoulders, doing its job of hiding his shameful exposure.

His hands search blindly in the low glow-light of the dying fire and candles for the red, small scarf dangling off the edge of the couch. He cradles it up. The soft, woolen material pushes against too-hot cheeks, to his face as Merlin hunches over his knees, burying his face as the first sobs quiver his frame, choked noises and tears muffling into the precious item.

Sleep claims him, coddled with exhaustion, when he sinks onto his right side, bent together.

.

.

**TBC...**

.

.


	5. Chapter 5

**.**

**.**

Dreamless evenings and morning hours are regular occasion, and Merlin is thankful for that.

That he has not been plagued with night terrors and prophetic visions, like Morgana had so long ago. (Not that all witches and warlocks were granted the Sight.)

The cool, stale air fills his nostrils, as Merlin becomes aware of his surroundings, piece-by-piece.

His head plenty sobered up, and ringing a little with a renewed headache pushing gradually at his temples, it dents a throw pillow. The hearth black and cold. A quiet patter of rain outside a window.

Merlin's tongue runs over his teeth, the fronts of them filming. He hasn't brushed his teeth, or showered in the last day. Ugh.

His nose wrinkles in sleepy disgust. He's about to stretch himself out and remedy this when… the starkly-coloured memories of yesterday slam into him, rooting him.

Arthur.

Going into town.

Ms. Thomas.

An ugly kitten sweater.

The winking girl.

A tall glass of whisky poising against a pink mouth, and the fluttering of conjured butterflies, and those lips summoning warmth and _thrill_—

He… god, he took advantage of Arthur… hadn't he?

Merlin gazes wordless at the gem-red scarf balled up loosely in one of his hands, before abandoning it and turning his head to the pillow. He buries his face into the plushy sensation with a determined frown. Shite, he can't very well hide the entire damn day.

There's nothing to do but face the consequences of his actions, and hope Arthur wouldn't take offense if Merlin wanted to discuss what had happened. He doesn't expect the other man _wants_ to talk about it. Arthur preferred avoiding discomfort with insults and excuses to be elsewhere.

But he doesn't see another way about it, other than continuing to live in an awkward situation. And they would, since Arthur has no-where else to go.

Merlin isn't about to make things worse by going down on one knee and professing an undying love to the clotpole, speaking of awkward; he doesn't _feel_ like composing sonnets about Arthur's hair colour or picking flower petals or even buying out an advert in a square to display his affections. That isn't how Merlin would act.

And now isn't the time to consider any of the hypothetical drivel because he _kissed_ Arthur, and Arthur… essentially rejected it. Not that Merlin would have not acted the same, if in Arthur's shoes.

He might have. It had been too soon, after the transition of Avalon to the twenty-first century, and perhaps… it isn't meant to be.

Scrubbing a hand through unruly, dark hair, Merlin blinks the rest of sleep-haze from his eyes.

He yawns soundlessly, untangling from the blanket and heaving onto his feet. A glance at the window confirms what he thought. It's finally raining—which meant staying in for the day. Merlin's gut squirms, but he's decided on it. Go soldier on through the rest of the day.

Gaius pads in, and the kitten stares up pointedly as Merlin's lips twitch into a forgetful smile.

"Is he up, lad?" Merlin asks, in a whisper, bending down.

His fingers stroke at gold fur. Gaius mewls noisily, and Merlin nods, smile growing playfully as he grabs his discarded tee-shirt, pulling it on. "I _see_, well. Then, I shall have to inform him that he's a rubbish bed-mate. I don't fancy his snoring either."

Finished with his imaginary conversation, Merlin heads into the kitchen, switching on the hob as he arranges a carton of eggs and the sausages.

Cooking would help him steady his thoughts.

**.**

**.**

Once pulled down into the depths of unconsciousness, Arthur remains without interruption.

Dreams have plagued him earlier in the morning, and they were less than pleasant. To dream of nothing counts as a blessing.

Arthur has no idea how long he has been asleep; he doesn't quite remember doing at all, but the waking is awful. His eyes crack open to dull, greyed lighting seeping in, and a slow, tired sigh pulls from his lips. Right then is when the world feels like it comes to a spinning crash. His head throbs from the slightest movement.

His head rolls back into the pillow, blue eyes shutting as Arthur groans out his frustration. His hand covers his face, over the bridge of his nose where his skin feels _tight_.

He's sure there's never been a hangover so strong, and any hopes of a good mood crumbles. How had he—?

Arthur's body stills as his mind races back in time.

The lake.

Cold and misty forest, him dragging his feet, and Merlin—

_Merlin_.

Subconsciously, he wets his lips. Only the taste of stale alcohol awais his tongue.

Arthur rubs his temples.

He has kissed Merlin. The several drinks he partook of has blocked out any clarity, which is an excuse he firmly uses. There's no need to discuss it. At least, right now for Arthur.

It's tempting to stay where he is, if not sleep then fight off the ache in his skull. But instead, Arthur drops his hand and carefully pulls himself up. He feels groggy and dirty, and particularly nauseous as he stabilizes himself on the edge of the bed, bracing himself as he stands.

Arthur's stomach lurches again, but after a moment of regaining himself, it calms.

The bedroom door creaks open, giving him a cringe as Arthur enters the hallway, cradling the side of his head when each step pounds his head more. From another part of the cottage, a loud meow echoes. An irritated scowl appears on Arthur's face, and he massages his temple lightly.

Merlin's already in the kitchen.

He weighs his options, already in the doorway. Pretend you don't remember. It never happened. The thought process repeats as Arthur steels himself and walks in, scowl unmoved.

"Could that animal of yours be any louder in the morning?" he grumbles.

The irritation in Arthur's tone comes as no surprise, as the blond man hunches himself onto the wooden stool in the kitchen. The grumpy attitude is expected, along with the rumpled-sweatshirt-he-apparently-slept-in look and a bedhead mess that… really isn't as unattractive as someone might think (and frankly, gives Merlin split-second flashbacks to sneaking into his king's chambers for whatever reason it was for Camelot's nightmarish disaster of the month, casting side-eye and discreet glances to the sleeping occupant of the four-poster bed).

A grumpy Pendragon should never be tussled with, even though Merlin never seemed to quite grasp the unspoken rule.

"Morning, sunshine," Merlin chirps from across the room, sounding a bit like _himself_ for once, despite the mood hanging over the other man. Arthur could never understand how anyone could be so bright in the morning, especially after drinking. Perhaps Merlin's used to it.

Arthur grimaces in response, a hand rising to cover his face as he slouches.

Merlin gestures to the pan of sizzling meat and eggs.

"I'm impressed, I'll admit it. The smell hasn't even made you a little dicky?" he asks.

A flash of green tinges Arthur's face. Breakfast would smell delicious at any other point of time, but his stomach roils.

He shoots Merlin a withering '_What do you think_?' and the other man apparently takes it as all of the motivation he needs, flipping through some cabinet doors above the sink, perusing through a selection of herbs he kept in stock.

"If Gaius had been alive long enough for the existence of the patent office, he would have made a killing in instant remedial cures for hangovers." Merlin chose several of the miniature jars, getting out a bowl to crush and mix the herbs, spreading the chunky and brownish-green paste over the head of his spoon.

He has no idea what Merlin means by 'patent' or 'office' but Arthur grunts, staring distrustfully.

"Don't think about how it looks… just hold your nose and swallow," Merlin instructs, holding out that appalling spoonful, giving him a knowing smirk.

Arthur's nose crinkles but he sits up straighter, plucking it from Merlin's hand and shoving it past his lips.

Instantly, he regrets it.

His brow furrows in disgust, lips pressing thin, but Arthur forces it back, consuming the paste.

"Are you _trying_ to poison me?" he accuses, narrowing his eyes.

Decidedly, it isn't very kind to devil a man when he's barely seeing through the white noise in his head and very nauseated. Merlin takes back the spoon, raking his gaze over him. His smirk creases up.

"You'll feel better in a minute," he says with all the airs of someone with endless patience, tossing the item into the sink with a flick of his wrist. "Think of it as _all_ the payback for having me muck out your horses' stables."

Merlin's spatula from his cooking pan jabs a bit in Arthur's direction, as he punctuates his point without resentment, amused, "That was the stable-boy's job."

A chuckle rises out of Merlin.

"I told you you I wouldn't want to be anyone's servant in the next life, not that I don't have a next life—pretty sure there's only this one. _I_, for one, like going to bed without smelling like horse dung and without having to use ice cold water and Gaius' steel tub. Y'know…"

Arthur rolls his eyes, tuning him out when Merlin's back faces him. _Fifteen hundred years_ and he's still complaining about his chores.

"—_Yes_, but you earned those duties," Arthur interrupts, voice dripping with an overly pleasant disposition to conceal his sarcasm, even at Merlin's pointed look over his shoulder.

"If you don't want breakfast, then you can have the shower first."

Merlin nods to the hallway, looking back at the now fully cooked sausage and the egg. He switches off the hob, wiping his hands on his jeans and shuffling through some papers on the kitchen table. "Save some hot water—and don't go through the medicine cabinet just because it's there. It's a mess."

Thanks to the rather disgusting hangover remedy and their banter, Arthur thinks he can manage to put last night behind him, even if the tension still feels heavy. He glances down the hallway, listening to clues from Merlin as to what exactly he's talking about.

_Shower_? Was that a new term for the bath?

Part of him almost came out to protest (_You expect me to draw my own bath?_), but Arthur says nothing.

He has questions, yes, but the role of the clueless buffoon grows old fast. It's frustrating, not knowing half the things Merlin spoke of, but stubborn as he is—why admit to it?

"Yes, alright," Arthur drawls, shooting Merlin a bored, dismissive look before standing.

Out of the kitchen, his pace slows as he locates one of the few, unfamiliar doors. What he sees within is a room, not too big nor cramped, the floor tiled and cool to his bare feet as Arthur walks around it. There's what Merlin had explained as a _sink_ and _the loo_—a rather unusual but convenient garderobe, he must admit—to its side, but what catches his attention that hadn't originally is the tall, filtered, glass door near the furthest wall.

It doesn't look like any bath, but the faint dripping noise suggests this must be _the shower_.

Arthur shakes his head, fingertips pinching the bridge of his nose. It's just another one of those moments where he needs to take in the realisation that everything is different.

He rummages one of the cupboards, pulling out a _towel_. There's a smaller cupboard above the sink, and he wonders if this is _the medicine cabinet_ Merlin called.

Arthur can see his reflection in the… _mirror_ covering it, and he gazes at it skeptically, fluffing his hair from his face.

There's no one to stop him, so Arthur opens the cabinet's door without hesitation.

It's a simple tug on the handle, and he examines its contents. Really—Merlin makes it sound like it's a _dangerous_ endeavor. All he sees is a couple of small white bottles and trinkets, an object that resembles a razor, and Arthur plucks it up to observe closer.

He quickly loses interest, and places it back in the scattered mess. But while doing so, Arthur's fingers accidentally bump and before he knows it, there's a chain reaction of falling.

Arthur manages to hastily apprehend two bottles, but most of the cabinet's objects end up on the floor, hitting the sink's edge along the way and creating more of a ruckus. He curses under his breath, going to his knees and picking them up, his jaw clenching when a knock sounds on the closed bathroom door.

"_What_, Merlin? I can handle being alone in your damn _loo_, believe it or not!" Arthur snaps without a real explanation, hands full and shoving bottles into the cabinet, cheeks heating.

Honestly.

**.**

**.**

The lighthearted humor in Merlin's eyes mask over with a stoic flatness, eclipsing away the bright colour in favour of detaching himself from the mixed emotions.

Merlin doesn't leave a final, dryly-witted remark to carelessly fling at Arthur's retreating figure, instead leaning and smoothing his pale hands against the crumpled newspaper in front of him.

Arthur didn't particularly act like he _cared_.

What _about_… well, the list continues to grow. And he should amount that behaviour as it is: _An act_.

It's a way for Arthur to bury away the restlessness and dread and exorbitant sense of disillusionment.

Through years and years, with the unfailing bond of their company, Merlin could pinpoint every little habit, every facial tic indicating a change in manner, even now. Arthur was trying to _bury away_ something important. Something he wasn't quite ready to come to terms with. No doubt to do with the previous evening, and all its misfortunes and blessings.

The hairs on Merlin's arms prickle at the hazy, dreamy memories—Arthur's desperation laced in the clumsy, hushed kiss, and the wonder in his roaming, skin-hot touch.

His heart quickens.

A small hitch of breath collapses out of Merlin in an aggravated, growling sigh. Blimey, he was _pathetic_.

Merlin turns from the savoury, deliciously smelling breakfast, roughly scraping his fingers against his scalp and weighing his head down on his hand as he sinks into Arthur's warmed spot on the wooden stool. Socked feet pitching to the bottom rung. Fingers curling to the mug of hot water and tea made earlier, and by now lukewarm for consumption.

Even as a short-lived thought, Merlin had to wonder if… he should have explained what a "shower" meant.

Not that Arthur couldn't working out turning dials, or finding the bar of soap for himself (the toilet had been simple enough)… but not much of the bathroom of the modern age would look remotely _familiar_ to Arthur's old-world mindset, including the plumbing system.

He pulls himself from staring blankly at nothing, as Gaius mewls up at him. The same, loud '_pay-attention-to-me-now_' tone, whiskers and nose twitching.

"What is it, chap? Hmm?"

Merlin scoots himself on the edge of the stool, doubling over to scoop the kitten into his hands. Several of Merlin's fingernails scratch bluntly behind a gold, furry ear.

"Are you hungry?"

Another meow.

Merlin takes it as a 'yes' and sets Gaius down on the floor. He fetches one of the two sausages from the pan, cutting them up into smaller pieces. As Merlin leaves the plate for him, watching with a faint smile as the feline curiously eyes the food and sniffs the air, what sounds like a muffled ruckus bursts from the hallway.

His smile drops away.

Of course it's the medicine cabinet. What on earth could have _possessed_ Merlin when he thought that, perhaps, Arthur could _listen_ to some sound advice?

Which leaves him no choice but to, by obligation alone, check on his house-guest.

Merlin's knuckles rap on the bathroom's door.

"Alright?"

"_What, Merlin? I can handle being alone in your damn loo, believe it or not!"_

He can practically hear the whining in Arthur's incredulous voice.

Merlin's eyes roll.

"Just checking," he says, sardonic in the forced-cheery reply.

**.**

**.**

Arthur grumbles to himself, dull nails on his cheek in attempt to cover up the embarrassed heat. Stupid.

He manages get the things back inside the deviled _medicine cabinet_, shutting it. The endeavour has been much more problematic than Arthur anticipated. With annoyance, he realises he's going to have to be more careful—it won't be the last time Arthur wanted to investigated the cottage. No point denying that.

Merlin's left, he's sure, and now Arthur faces the task of the shower. Having a shower, or whatever.

(How difficult could it possibly be?)

With a short huff, Arthur decides to get it over with.

He reaches down, grabbing hold of the sweatshirt's hem and tugging the wrinkled fabric over his head. It drops into a limp pile on the floor, accompanied by the sweatpants and his undergarments. The exposure brings a shiver to Arthur's nerves, but ignores it and steps into the glass-shielded shower.

Once there, he examines the spacious area, as well as the metal piece hung down as a curve above his head. Arthur blinks at it, and then the dials attached on the wall below it.

His lips press together in a silent 'what the damned-' and then, he grasps the left one.

Arthur feels it shift in his hand, giving him the impression he's meant to twist it, and so he does. The next thing he knows, there's a hiss coming directly above him, and the air blows as thin lines of water rain on him, dousing his head in a _freezing_ cold spray.

He jumps in place, one of Arthur's hands slamming into the glass, cursing. Arthur scrambles for the other dial—the one with a red **H** label—and ducking away from the cold water. He grimaces, arms curled to himself. When the air feels thicker, foggier, Arthur extends a hand to feel warm water trickling from the metal piece.

Arthur ducks back under the spray, teeth clanking, relieved.

It's better than any bath he remembers. The water pounds constantly against his head and the length of Arthur's naked back, loosening the tense knots he felt building. Arthur tilts his neck back, eyes falling closed as he scrubs at his entire face, pushing damp strings of blond hair away from his forehead.

He stays under the self-heating water for a little while, hands mapping his broad chest, attempting to rid the dirt and sweat on his body.

Arthur's fingers pause over a couple of his scars, but linger over Mordred's.

Or rather, the _lack_ of a scar where the enchanted sword had thrust with unforgiving force into him and _killed_ him.

His lower lip slid between his teeth, chewed on lightly. This is the only thing he finds disagreeable about the shower; it allows his mind to drift, which is unsafe in the time being.

Arthur sighs through his nose before removing his head from underneath the water so he could open his eyes. The soap bottles are easy to locate, and easy to read, thank god, and it's _nice_ to be able to rinse out all the lake grime from his scalp into the drain at his toes.

Finally, he recalls Merlin's request to save hot water for him—and understanding that making his last decision to ignore the last command was _disastrous_—now is a good time to leave.

With a squeak and a jerk of Arthur's hand on the dials, the spray disappears. "Interesting," he mutters, wiping off his face.

The towels aid him in drying off, rubbing one through his hair and then wrapping another to his waist.

Arthur picks up his clothes off the tiled floor and wonders if the new clothes are on the bed. They weren't the last time he looked. Merlin must have put them away. He readjusts his grip on the dark blue towel, exiting the bathroom. The temperature change is _dreadful_, and Arthur fully intends on badgering Merlin to light a fire.

Towel now resting on his hip-line, Arthur's grasp on it loosens as he tucks the dirty clothes in the crook of his arm. Running a free hand into his wet mop of gold hair.

"Merlin," he calls, glancing into other rooms on his way to the kitchen. "My clothes, where did you throw them?"

They better not be _missing_.

**.**

**.**

When things quiet down to a normal settle, Merlin takes it as a sign of better luck, lifting his ear from pressing tightly against the bathroom door.

He doesn't need to meddle further, as the pipes rattle dully and the water switches on. The warlock shudders to himself as he treads into the parlour, picking up some logs near the fireplace and throwing them in. Merlin flicks his fingers outwards to the soot-encrusted hearth.

"_Forbearnan_," he whispers.

His very nerve-endings thrum with the dulcet, bone-deep pleasure of his magic surging through him. The fire born of it crackles to life, warming the room steadily. Verbalised spells, as he learned, dealt more with a singular focus than for multiple actions needed or the unrestrained might of emotions.

Merlin doesn't hurry his wandering, ending up back in the kitchen and snatching the empty plate off the floor. At his feet, Gaius licks at his chops, seeming satisfied with the impromptu meal, and nudges Merlin's ankles with clear affection before padding out.

"You're welcome," Merlin says after him, smiling close-lipped as he tidies up. Yesterday's newspaper thrown out. Merlin's grease-spotted plate soaking in running sink water.

He scrapes a hunk of scrambled egg right off the pan, chewing thoughtfully on the bland flavour as Merlin sorts the rest of the papers.

His right hand stills over a flier.

One that he… doesn't remember receiving. Merlin frowns, reading over the fancy lettering printed across the front: _**Albion's Return**_.

A morsel of sticky, hardened egg sucks into his windpipe as he coughs noisily on it, cheeks puffing, and bangs on his sternum. In his brief arm-flail, Merlin's maroon-coloured mug sends itself crashing onto the kitchen floor, shattering into wet pieces. His head jerks round when a toweled Arthur enters, searching adamantly for his new clothes.

Arthur's eyebrows shoot up, with a half-worried, half-incredulous look of '_what the hell is matter with you, and am I going to have to stop you from choking_'.

Now able to manage a voice, lungs heaving with small gasps, Merlin rasps, hand massaging his throat, "—god, what is it?"

"My _clothes_."

"They're in the drawers, where they're supposed to be."

At the curt response, Arthur seems to huff. "It's not as if I know what you would do with them," he retorts, dubious.

Merlin sends a silent, outright 'duh' glance.

He scrambles down to pick up the broken mess of his mug.

"… You'll find the clean pants there, too—_aah_—!" Merlin winces, nicking his finger. He draws the bloody finger into his mouth, brow furrowed, and sipping around the digit.

The pieces land in the trash, leaving the cold puddle of tea behind. Merlin avoids the other man's eyes, rushing around him and for the foggy bathroom, banging the door shut.

He slumps against the door, a weak cough slipping free, mouth tasting heavy like the coppery tinge of his blood. Oh hell.

Oh _hell_ indeed.

Merlin's saliva-wrinkled finger withdraws from the seal of his lips, as he examines the weeping gash running along the length of it. It's deep, but not enough for a stitch or two. (Not for the likes of him.) But it's plenty ugly to stare at.

Come to think of it, Arthur didn't appear surprised at the show of clumsiness, but slightly bothered by the choking fit.

Probably thought Merlin couldn't hold his breakfast either.

Merlin heaves off the door quickly, twisting the brass rap, methodically washing disinfected hand-soap over the wound and rubbing it with towel. The surface of his hands tingle, like a warm, buzzing itch, as if his skin wishes to creep right off. The sensation began when Merlin's hand touched the colour-saturated, printed flier sitting innocently on his table.

_Albion's Return?_

Right, okay. Coincidence. Had to be.

Merlin shakes his head. No, no, he knows better. Destiny has a way of tampering and weaving its way straight through his choices, even after the fall of Camelot. Destiny controls every possible outcome. Arthur had been _meant_ to return—to unite the lands. Maybe the flier had been meant to _be_ there.

But it's a rubbish faire… what does that have to do with anything…?

While he zones out, it doesn't register that Merlin already shed his clothes—puddling together on the moisture-damp bathmat—and grasps sluggishly at the drippy shower stall to get in. Merlin's own hand casts a squeaking, sloppy hand-print to the opposite side of the glass, nearly mirroring Arthur's fogging away from existence.

A cascade of water spills onto Merlin's shoulders and the dip of his back, leaving him to emit a long, happy groan through his nose at the pressure. Blue eyes lull closed, as Merlin inclines to the shower, his eyelashes dripping wet when he rights himself.

Arthur _succeeded_ in resisting the temptation of stealing all the hot water for himself? Would miracles truly never cease?

He stands there unmoved, silently enjoying the rising heat and cleansing nature of water, before grabbing a mini green bar of soap. Suds rinse away, trailing down Merlin's scrawny legs and into the drain, where he not-so-gently scrapes the bar against his arms, his ribcage and his abdomen, and wherever he can reach.

By the looks of it, the shampoo and conditioner bottles have been put to use. Merlin wouldn't put it past Arthur to divulge his curiosity about modern grooming and why the hell it was so important whether or not you could wash with 'colour-treated' or pH-balanced'.

Merlin holds back a breathy laugh, lips twitching.

Arthur with his hair an utter eyesore, gold strands sticking out like cowlicks as his friend had threaded his fingers through his soaked hair, with a deeply impatient look on his face while they were in the kitchen.

Couldn't even think to look in Merlin's room for the new clothes—out of sheer laziness, he expects.

Arthur's skin had the appearance of rosy flushing, no doubt to do with the temperature of shower water, covering the tops of his shoulders, on his neck and cheeks. On the flat of his sternum dusting with fine, but slightly darker, curlique-hairs than on his head. Despite the passage of time, Arthur was still all muscles and gold, summer skin. He carried a warrior's lithe with his movements. It brought nostalgia worming into Merlin's stomach, and it still does now.

The warlock bites down on the inside of his mouth, hard enough to feel a twinge of pain when his blood rushes and _rushes_, pulsing his cock and stirring it to life. Merlin finally does laugh.

He swore he _wouldn't_ start composing poetry about Arthur.

This is getting out of hand fast.

Rinsing out the lightweight foam of shampoo out of his dark locks, Merlin switches off the water, stepping out of the stall and toweling himself dry. He prefers his showers at least a half an hour, but not with company present. (Not that company ever calls.)

The ache in his cut finger dulls. With a hasty glance down at it, Merlin finds the skin healed over with only a thin, white scar in its place.

Immortality has its advantages, especially in the simplest of injuries. He has not healed so rapidly in his younger years, and Merlin expects the growing magical involvement had a hand in this development.

His hands span for his clothes when it strikes him that Merlin had not grabbed fresh ones.

Hoping Arthur is already dressed, he clutches a towel around himself and retreats to his bedroom. No one present, though some of Merlin's clothes had been scattered out the drawers—out of their neat and folded arrangements.

"Prat," he mutters like a curse under his breath, shoving them back.

**.**

**.**

As soon as Merlin vanished, Arthur rubs at his face, forcibly shaking his head before searching for what he needed.

The patter of rain still echoes overhead, but it's lulling rhythm and a simple background noise.

He rediscovers Merlin's bedroom and pulls at his cupboard—_drawers_ to inspect them. Arthur's towel drops carelessly onto the floor, as he tugs on a pair of undergarments and breeches—_trousers_. The strange drag of the cloth, of the denim cause him to frown.

He digs around some more, tossing less attractive shirts away until Arthur decides on a dark grey one, pulling it over his head and feeling it snug against his chest.

His hip knocks into a bedside table, wincing him up and gritting his teeth.

Arthur mutters venomously at it, eyeing the piece of furniture.

Something _glints_ within the small, cracked drawer.

He doesn't move for a long moment, mind racing as Arthur contemplates if what he's seeing _is_ truly what he believes it to be.

His hand reaches in, bumping the drawer further open.

Arthur's breath dies in his throat when the familiar, metal brooch comes into view. It's worn, as if handled and touched many times without a clean. Arthur knows the look well seeing it dulled often as a child and he had felt the need to carry it.

His mother's symbol, her crest, even if thinned—it's the _same _as he remembers.

Arthur studies it, lips parting slightly as the brooch turns over in his hands.

Merlin has kept it.

After all this time, and all the centuries when he gave this item to Merlin—since his death, Merlin still had it in his possession, right next to his bed.

Arthur can't explain the tightness in his throat, and he doesn't know when his feet began moving. He's back in the parlour, to the fire crackling nearby. Arthur blinks, eyes gazing up.

Having the brooch against his skin feels a little bit more like _home_.

"Merlin," he calls out, but this time without impatience.

"_Yeh, yeh!"_

Arthur's legs bend, his weight dropping to the edge of the couch as his fingertips trace over the smoothed, aged lines of silver.

So far, the only things left of his old life were his memories and Merlin. Seeing this, touching, holding it, is a reminder he desperately needed. This isn't all some nightmare, that much is confirmed, and while Arthur feels more comfortable with the brooch in his hands—this is just another reminder.

It's difficult. Merlin is still so much the same, despite the brooding and other elements that stuck out sorely, despite… the _secrets_.

Merlin's here, but nothing else of their past.

Only him and now the brooch.

It looks _exactly the same_ as it had when Arthur passed it off into Merlin's waiting hands.

Arthur's lips press together, the apple of his throat clenching as he releases a breath through his nose. There are lucid moments where he expects a door to open and for a counsellor or one of his knights to step inside, looking to report back from patrol. _God_. His bright blue eyes force shut, before opening again and he grips on the cold object like a life-line.

It's not _just_ him, is it?

Merlin has been through this as well.

Alive, as these centuries—_magic has done this? how?_—and without companionship. _Merlin_: annoyingly lighthearted and optimistic, charismatic, people-person Merlin, who has been subjected to facing the world on his own. The thought unsettles Arthur more than he expects.

He hardly recognises anything in Merlin's home. Nothing left of the days of Camelot.

Except this item, something Arthur has treasured for years.

Relief surges through him, and the faith restored in the fact he gave it to the _right_ person. Not that there had been any doubt in his mind in the first place.

**.**

**.**

Merlin huffs for breath, his white undershirt-collar damp to the back of his neck underneath the solid navy-blue hoodie. He avoids skidding on the balls of his heels, as Merlin makes a mad dash for where Arthur waits on the settee, sending him such a grave expression.

"What is it, Arth—?"

Merlin's eyes widen, shocked, as a hand gestures out with Ygraine's brooch.

"So you do remember this, do you." It's a statement, really, but one laced with faint confusion. "I'm surprised you managed to hang onto this."

For a moment, it truly looks as if Arthur processes just how displaced he is in his reality, and taking it not so well. The hunched shoulders. The shudder in his breath. The dismayed, visible haunt in Arthur's eyes as he slouches on Merlin's ratty settee and knuckles his mother's memory. Like a drowning man would to a raft in the middle of an unforgiving sea.

He knuckles it as Merlin had knuckled it on sleepless nights.

For days and days, thumbing the ridges and memorizing its shape without a glance, pressing it against his lips to taste the cold, bitter metal. Over time, he would restore it with a flick of his own magic, to its original form—_just as_ Arthur had given it.

Merlin takes a step towards him, keeping his voice low in reassurance, "I would have never parted with it. I kept some things, from back then. Things that may have not been missed if anyone cared to look for them." Merlin's pale, tightened mouth lifts up at the corners, revealing fondness. "A spell-book… a rabbit foot… Sir Gwaine's necklace… the"

An idea prickles at him, so suddenly, and the words fly out of Merlin so fast that they jumble up, "_WaitthereIllbeback_—"

He flees the parlour, disregarding any bewilderment or irritated protest from Arthur, returning to his bedroom.

The wardrobe-doors fold open with a harsh, clanging force when Merlin waves his hands at them with a complicated wrist-gesture. He crawls in, the pair of skinny jeans already ripped on Merlin's knees. Merlin roots through the stacks of boxes in the dusty, shadowy corner. Finally, finally the one Merlin desires to find is there—a medium-sized, ivory box.

Unremarkable in weight, sidings carved intricately, but more _precious_ than any ordinary person can comprehend.

The box hums warningly against the surface of Merlin's fingers.

"_Líese_."

It unlatches with a click! and the _buzzing_ of restrictive magic fades. Merlin's heart pounds.

He scrambles back onto his feet, hurrying out.

Busy rummaging through the ivory box, Merlin does not meet Arthur's eyes as he stops in front of the other man waiting for an explanation. Arthur's eyebrows pinch together in contemplation, but when Merlin seems to be preparing none, he grunts.

Merlin sets down the box with its square lid hanging open, its interior pillowed with garnet red satin, beside Arthur's cushion. He clears his throat softly, cradling the gold, chunky ring between his index finger and thumb. A bit of usual shyness inching over him.

"I believe this… well, it belongs to you," he says, not waiting for Arthur's permission before clasping his left hand. "Camelot may not be a place to return to, and I can't pretend that I understand fully what you're going through," Merlin slips the tarnished royal seal over Arthur's large knuckle, a warmth inside him swelling up unnecessarily proud, "but I can't imagine a soul on this earth who deserves this more, Arthur."

Any words beginning to form on Arthur's lips pass invisibly. Speechless, he gazes down at the crest—the very same _tattooed_ now on Merlin's back.

Finally, brighter blue eyes look at Merlin before the tiniest, grateful smile appears on Arthur's mouth.

He clenches his fist slowly, and releases, getting used to the feeling of the ring.

"Thank you, Merlin."

Merlin returns the grin from Arthur, feeling it come as easily as anything, vividly striking a glee to Merlin's features.

Words can't begin to explain how much it means to him in having Arthur accept his own personal item, testing its weight before deeming it satisfactory. To get a glimpse of his sincerity.

"That has to be the third or fourth nicest thing you've said to me in two days," Merlin says, ribbing him despite the cherished moment just shared. His cheeks hurt a little from how hard he grins. "I'm afraid of what will spoil my luck now, honestly."

Arthur bursts out in a laugh, the noise almost surprising him himself and tries to cover it up by rolling his eyes.

"Don't get used to it," he says, dismissively. "I'm bound to run out of nice things to say sometime soon."

It's something _wonderful_ to behold, to listen for, Arthur's laughter—rich and loud, warm and boisterous in its tone as it rumbles up from his throat. It could once fill every space of an empty chamber in the Citadel or any marble-carved hall. And now it's left to only fill the empty, isolated spaces of Merlin's heart.

Even if the usual, brassy and cocky attitude had to follow, to defuse the more pronounced emotions from showing.

Merlin wouldn't have expected any less, or thought of it any little in its wonder. His cottage had… never been graced with the joyful sounds of laughter. Not ever.

**.**

**.**

**TBC...**

**.**

**.**

* * *

><p><em>You, my darlings, have been such a fabulous support group for this. Thank you, thank you so much and I'm always eager to hear what you say. =) And much thanks to my two beta readers and my Britpick ememmyrm on AO3 and to my inspirational half to this story marlena_darling on AO3.<em>


	6. Chapter 6

**.**

**.**

As he steps away from bumping Arthur's knees, Merlin's foot nudges the small, red scarf on the stone-floor where it had been left in the groggy and reluctant morning. Merlin snatches it up on an unguided instinct, faithfully tying the scarf in place round his neck and tucking in the frayed ends.

Feeling it _right_ to do so.

"How's your head, by the way? I haven't seen you running to the loo yet." Merlin cants his head a moment as he asks, curiously, "Think you can try eating again?"

"Fine," Arthur says, and looks like he means it.

Merlin's hands absently smooth over his woolen scarf, his eyes observing Arthur's eyes drifting over Merlin's neck. The other man can't very well hide the appreciative nature in his stare, and Merlin's smile softens a bit with aching muscles thankful for it. Of course it makes sense. Arthur has been so used to seeing old-fashioned attire. That's likely why he chose it.

"And I can," he confirms to Merlin.

Arthur's hand tightens up on the gold sigil, as he stands with a hand planted on the sofa cushion.

That's when Merlin notices how Arthur's legs stiffen under his own weight. Without realising he had, Merlin lurches forward, clasping firmly to Arthur's elbow to steady him upright.

"Easy now," he murmurs, using a kind of gentle voice, one might use on a startled animal. His gestures are kind but Arthur mutters a frustrated protest, wrenching away. Arthur's stomach produces a gurgle, faint but audible, and Merlin meets his gaze knowingly, fingers empty of their cradle.

Arthur gestures with the brooch. "It's yours—I don't want to carry it around."

"… I appreciate it." Pushing off his hesitancy, perhaps thinking Arthur _needed_ it more than him, Merlin quickly pockets the item. "But you're keeping the ring," he adds, sternly.

"Well, it is after all _mine_."

His skin mourns the loss of heat, Merlin's fingers clenching in as Arthur leaves for the hallway, steadier.

"I hope your cooking has improved over the years!" Arthur calls ahead of him.

Merlin's blue eyes roll in annoyance.

Oh, so that's how it's going to be, is it…

He squares his shoulders, neck flexing.

"Of course, milord. Whatever you say, milord," Merlin grumbles, heading to the kitchen as well, including a sarcastic expression. "I'm just a simple bumpkin living in the middle of nowhere … it's not like I spent the ten years prior to two thousand wandering the earth _cooking your damn meals in the woods_, or anything…"

Feeling a pinch too thorny to concentrate on using magical commands, and not in the mood to repair a thoroughly demolished cupboard door, Merlin pays no attention to his companion leaning over the table-top. He scrapes away the cold, hardened mess of scrambled egg off his pan, right into the rubbish. The pan bangs into the sink, perhaps unnecessary rough. Merlin then grabs the oak-wood larder door, jerking it open.

"You haven't tried these yet."

He tosses the container of jam doughnuts towards Arthur. Merlin prepares two glasses of milk and orange juice for them, his jaw relaxing.

Arthur's voice rises in the background, curiously. "_What is this_—?"

When Merlin glances up blankly, finally to him, the colourful flier from earlier is being examined with one of Arthur's '_the hell_' faces. Merlin's eyes fix down on the written words and a shiver he can't place crawls up his back.

Interpreting it as 'no-not-good-bad-very-bad', the warlock nearly throws himself across from him, slapping a hand over the flier's edge.

"Nothing, nothing at all," he says in casual protest, tugging with his fingers against Arthur's hold, but finding it unsuccessful.

"_Renaissance_…" Arthur murmurs to himself.

"Listen, don't—"

But, by then, it's too late.

Arthur's pale blue eyes widen on the bold print:

He lifts his head. "Merlin," Arthur says, slow and deliberate. "You said Camelot was gone."

"It is, it—"

"You said the world had forgotten."

"_Yes_, but—"

He reads back the title, finger tapping sharply, not pulling his bewildered stare from Merlin.

"If it truly has, then _how_ can this be?" Arthur tells him. "_When_ I return? Do you have an answer for that?" It's a mind-spinning experience, but the first thing Arthur feels is excitement. Camelot. Albion—where the five realms ruled together.

But it is exactly what Merlin is trying to avoid. That spark of unabashed hope in Arthur's eye, at the mere mention of his kingdom. Of finding some way to restore what had once been so great. He knows Arthur would go through hell and high water to summon the remaining heirs and revive the fallen city—_nothing but ashes and dry grass; everyone is dead, dead_—

He can't have Arthur clinging too tightly to the old ways, old memories. No shielding himself away from the inevitability and the cold plunge of realism.

Merlin's face cringes, lips thinning when he hears the stubborn acknowledgment of his name.

"Arthur," he repeats back dolefully, with his fingers clawing still onto the glossy flier. God, he doesn't want to do this.

"It's a faire," Merlin explains softly, eyes cast down. "Two towns over. People… they wear the costumes and do the sword-fighting and drink ale, but it's only pretend to them."

_Costumes?_

He doesn't understand the expression on Merlin's face. He was the one who spoke of fate, who mentioned his return being a long time coming. How can this be any different? Arthur's stomach feels heavy, as Merlin uses that _damned_ voice—the one he's been hearing since the woods. Like he's missing something, just a _child_ learning everything for the first time.

"The modern age doesn't believe Camelot is real."

Arthur's fingers clench before releasing the flier.

It's _impossible_.

Merlin chances a glance at him, throat clutching. Camelot had been Arthur's legacy, a great kingdom in its prime and on the verge of change. Knowing it had been lost in between the lines of myth and history is… _devastating_ is not the word that even starts to cover it.

"Some do," Merlin adds, hurriedly. "They do. Scholars and medieval enthusiasts have done so much—well, some of the history is absolutely rubbish—but believing in magic … the majority can't believe in such impossibilities without seeing it with their own eyes."

Teeth flash out, worrying over Merlin's bottom lip. His fingers nudge against Arthur's fingertips lightly, as they grow slack against the table's top.

"I'm sorry. I didn't lie. Camelot's time has passed," he rasps. "Albion is what we call Great Britain. We're here. There's still a monarchy, but a Parliament as well—"

"—_How_ could they not know?" Arthur snaps before he can stop himself, eyes flickering up. There's a boiling anger there, pent up frustration. He swallows it down. "Merlin, Camelot was the greatest kingdom to reign in the land. Even now it can't be only a myth. How do they not know about magic?"

He pauses, jaw steeling.

"It's timing. It has to be," Arthur says disbelieving, motioning to the annual renaissance flier. "You can't tell me it happens often, and now, when I am here?"

Merlin shakes his head and mumbles, "I-I thought maybe it was—"

_Coincidence_.

Merlin's hands begin tingling again, the warm, buzzing itch spreading against his palms to the surface of colourful paper. And he lets go of the flier as if it has purposely electrocuted him, hands seizing themselves, eyebrows knitted as he stares down at it.

Arthur's voice had risen in outrage, as he spoke of the non-existent certainty of magic the world had to offer now, and it was unfair and cruel how much his dear friend doesn't _understand_. How much Merlin _wants_ him to understand.

Heat travels up Merlin's neck, to his cheeks. He impulsively grinds his teeth. The blue of his eyes dark with self-resentment.

_How could they not know?_

"Because **I** was the one who made it so!"

Silence permeates the air between both men, thick and choking. Merlin's breathes puncture it, coming in, coming out hard and fast from his opening mouth.

"Magic had to stay hidden. I let legends remain legends; after Camelot's fall, the people…" he croaks the last few words, shoulders shuddering a moment. A wet gleam to Merlin's eyes.

He offers a melancholy, pained smile. Bitter in its masque of forced emotion. "They feared what they couldn't understand, Arthur. They began hunting us again."

"You weren't there for them in 1515. The Protestants… going round, thumping their Bibles and religion and scaring all the villagers. They were hunting others to _blame_ for their problems—not real magic. I was unlucky when I was being careful. Ended up disguising myself as an old crone and got tied to a stake with some kindling. They burned me alive—"

The confession slips out from Merlin's lips.

Even if the torchfire had not been magical, it had been a slow, _agonizing_ burning, taking hours.

It ate away the tatters of his clothes, at Merlin's flesh, and at his howling cries when the flames finally taken it, consuming him whole. He felt every inch of it, had been awake for each smoke-blinding and white-hot second. There was no mercy in fainting.

Fire was supposed to annihilate even the most powerful ranking of enchantresses and warlocks, as far as he had known then. _Monster_, a monster, echoing in his ears.

Merlin rubs at his scarfed neck, recalling with a dim, vacant tone, "It might have not helped my cause when I stood up for the women accused. It was madness and no one could see that. But they got away from the village and the mobs with their families. That's all that mattered."

"Not me."

The faraway daze in Merlin's eyes ebbs, fading off when he concentrates on Arthur's own solemn blue. A gentler, benevolent blue. Like water, cooling, dousing the painful memory.

.

.

By then, all Arthur can do is watch the crumbling wreck he caused.

His temples drum on occasion, his mouth dry. The way Merlin's words falter… there's a resigned slump in his shoulders, but it becomes all that more difficult when Arthur notices the glassy look accompanied by a smile that looks so out-of-place on Merlin. When he mentions 'hunting', Arthur's pinched expression slowly blanks, and he simply listens.

That's all he can do now—Arthur listens to him, pale blue eyes focused entirely on the other man.

Merlin's story holds the air of bad news even in the beginning, but the more he reveals, the more Arthur finds himself dreading where it's heading.

_They burned me alive._

If the alcohol hasn't done the trick of making him fall ill, Arthur's sure this does.

His stomach knots, and a chill encompasses his body. It runs up and down his arms in waves, hairs prickling. Merlin, his Merlin, had been forced to endure a fate he knew to be one of the more prolonged forms of torment before death. At least in the mighty Camelot, his father had the decency… to end any suffering or sentence quickly.

Arthur ducks his head, not trusting himself to look at Merlin. The absence in his voice, the dark eyes—it isn't like him. Not the Merlin he had known.

No, this Merlin has been through so much more since Arthur's time, and the thought tugs mercilessly at his heart. Arthur rubs at the bridge of his nose, pinching his eyes together shut in attempt to collect himself before glancing back at Merlin.

He wouldn't look again again, not at Merlin's deep-seated pain. Those eyes should be full of light, compassion, _happiness_.

"Merlin," he says, the name leaving him softly, without pretense because Arthur has nothing to say. What _can_ you say to that?

Arthur wants to reach out, to inspect, to touch and shroud him from harm. Merlin had been merely a boy, if not annoyingly charismatic and troublesome. A lowborn manservant in the glow of Arthur's memories, an _innocent_ thing.

He is _furious_ this has happened to Merlin. No one had been around to _protect_ him.

Arthur certainly hadn't.

He doesn't ask Merlin how he survived the fire. He assumes magic played a part, and while it was the cause of the problem, Arthur is thankful for it saving Merlin's life and restoring him.

"It's not as though magic isn't used anymore," Merlin explains, his chest no longer heaving.

Merlin's anxious hand lowers back down, in his lap.

"It's more spiritual now," he explains. "Wicca and healers, believing in the elements and goddesses. There's faith in herbal medicine and meditation. And it's not as though Camelot is _gone_ forever. Even if the modern age doesn't believe it had been a real place, they believe in the stories told about you and… your courage. The goodness in your heart."

The name of his kingdom brings a sense of warmth to Arthur's chest.

He sucks in air, tightly.

Merlin leans forward, saying earnestly, unable to rid of the awed murmur even if he had been aware of it, "And you have no idea how _important_ you are."

Arthur somehow doubts the validity, but smiles, faintly and appreciatively in the corners of his mouth.

A familiar quirk of Merlin's lips. He grasps onto the table-edge, and then motions for Arthur to follow him.

"I've got something to show you."

It's like shaking off a daze, but Arthur pulls himself upright, out of their conversation.

He wishes he was more able to keep up with the change of pace the other man is capable of, or at least could pretend. There's no way. He could not push the image of Merlin, tied in place and surrounded by black, billowing smoke and flame, out of his mind. Nor the sickening thought that if Merlin had been found out earlier in their lives, as a practicing sorcerer, he might have not escaped a similar fate.

He never liked it. While his father and his king insisted that it was necessary, needing to execute those wielding the dangerous phenomenon that was _magic_, Arthur sought no pleasure in their death. He had not experienced the same sense of closure afterward. Not even after receiving his father's crown.

Blue eyes stay locked on Merlin in the corridor, ahead of him, watching pale fingers trail along the wall as Merlin's shoulders clench in.

What else happened to him? How much more had Merlin endured during his time—was the fire even the worst of it?

The longer Arthur remains, the more he glimpses this new era, he starts to realize it's not just the culture that has changed. It has weathered down on Merlin as well.

Merlin did not deserve the burdens put upon him, and Arthur's once more reminded that he had left what he was meant to protect. Camelot vanished into the slipping cracks of time, his friends, his regency and counsel, his loved ones too. And now, Merlin has been left to fend for himself when Arthur had been meant to keep him out of harm.

Still, he thinks Merlin has done his best—if anything at all.

.

.

Merlin shouldn't have opened his gob like that.

He shouldn't have let such vulnerable details about centuries ago, that no longer mattered in the grand scheme, be spoken. It allowed Arthur to see the fragmented, hurting soul beneath the sometimes genuine, sometimes impassive mask. But once the wound had reopened, Merlin couldn't raise a hand to stop it, the gush of despair or vulnerability.

Arthur had been left shaken in its wake, not disclosing this with words (_words_, all these words were always getting Merlin into trouble), but in his actions. In the compliant act of sitting in silence, listening and touching his face in agitation, bowing his head to not meet Merlin's eyes.

Because he couldn't _face_ what Merlin had become. Arthur didn't need to say it. He wasn't how _Merlin_ was supposed to be.

_Merlin_ was supposed to be unafraid—a chatterbox with a heart of gold and a friendly grin, housing in himself an outrageously defiant and good-hearted temperament.

This stranger just wore Merlin's skin, stretched two sizes too-tight, and a heart too damaged to feel sanguine or heartened during difficult moments.

But he's _trying_ to be Merlin. _Arthur's_ Merlin. The Merlin waiting for his king's return from Avalon, ready to be at his side once again.

That has to mean _everything_, doesn't it…?

The first two fingers of Merlin's left hand stroke along the hallway wall, dragging slightly as Merlin heads for the opposite end of the cottage. He's assured by the heavy sounds of footsteps behind him. The rain outside batters the sides of his home, streaking the windows, thunder rumbling low in the distance.

"In here," he says.

Both of Merlin's hands yank at oak, double doors leading to his personal library. The atmosphere inside has the dry, peppery odor of aged paper. Something Merlin enjoyed. On one wall, unlike the other three arranged flat as any other, the last wall stood tall with a half-moon shape.

"All of these books are about us, Arthur. Every record I could gather, every theory, every fantastical story about your life and its history."

Arthur halts, staring up at the huge and impressive stack.

"Strangers have written them?" he asks.

Merlin nods.

"How many?"

"Countless."

He turns on his heel to Arthur, hands clasping behind him, before that wall, looking over his head with a tilted chin at the rows and rows of dusty, shabby books.

"I doubt anyone has this large of a private collection," Merlin observes, almost boastfully.

Arthur's eyes widen in their sockets, as he circles where he is, perhaps to take a broader scope of all he stares at in the room. Though nothing would have prepared him for the gravity, Merlin supposes. Merlin had been given the time and luxury of watching them accumulate slowly, and Arthur does not share this.

(Many of the records and fictionalized accounts are _misinformed_ and altogether wrong about factual information about Camelot and Arthur's reign. But beggars couldn't be choosers.)

Merlin's eyes flare gold, a split-second, as one of the heftier, leather-bound tomes removes itself from its proper slot, landing into his outstretched hands.

"This one, however…"

He presents it to Arthur, exposing the gold, glinting lettering. "This is the only one of its making."

The name '_Emrie Uhas_' exposes scripted on the spine of the tome, and beneath the titling. The same name Merlin had given the woman in the shop.

"Every truth I've kept from you… every moment of my life entering Camelot until I left the city is here." Merlin's long fingers clutch nervously, as he breathes, "Take it… please…"

As the leathered, worn book passes between them, Arthur's thumb soothes over the '_Uhas_' unconsciously, as Merlin's eyes trace its movement.

_Emrie Uhas._

It's clever, not in a self-assessing way. Merlin has not heard anyone say '_Emrys_' to him in ages, quite literally. The Druids, what was left of them, kept to other parts of Europe as he understood it, and would not recognize his power through his wards and shields.

Of course he's nervous. Merlin isn't about to hang around for the memories, not even the first chapter Arthur undoubtedly would start with. For the fond reminiscence of a boy Merlin no longer knew.

So much information would be hard to process. Some Arthur might consciously feel anger towards. Merlin's gut feels hot and heavy, swooping up.

"Are you sure?"

"As I'll ever be," Merlin replies, ignoring the concern, and leveling a pointed gaze to Arthur. "I just… need you to remember something first."

His hand fists itself, hesitant in its decision, and he swallows tersely.

Merlin then holds out his arm, touching one of Arthur's biceps with a friendly, rushed squeeze. The grimness and sense of age from Merlin's features drifting off, and without his permission, it's replaced with keenness and the boundless devotion he had shown as a bumbling fool.

"Everything I've done… I've done to protect you, and help you, Arthur. For us to unite the lands and see you be king. That's what I wanted out of the years we had together."

Fingers slip away, and Merlin's lips part, releasing a sigh.

He steps back dutifully, inclining his head.

"Take your time," Merlin says, walking around the other man.

.

.

He won't open the book if Merlin changes his mind.

It's slowly become heavy in his hands, and the realisation of what the pages held—is no more lighter. Arthur wants to know, does he _ever_, but this is Merlin's. It's his life, his thoughts, everything that had occurred in the years between them. Anything personal Arthur had not known would be here. Arthur would know it—and that took a _great_ deal of trust.

Blue eyes continue to stare into Merlin's, for an answer as the other twists his hands. The one he receives is not definite or confident, and it'll have to do.

Arthur's eyebrows rise, and he waits, for Merlin stepping forward and touching his arm before Arthur's aware he's on edge, shivering.

"I'll keep that in mind," he murmurs, sucking in a quiet breath.

Merlin drifts back, turns, leaves, and then he's alone. The silence of the room looms, and the sound of his exhale startles Arthur from looking at the doors Merlin vanished behind. Arthur's eyes gaze down on the tome, and his hands knuckle it.

There's no point putting it off any longer.

He locates an oversized chair in the right-hand corner, soft grey light from the window casting in through the rain. Arthur settles, flipping open the cover until it's there.

_The very beginning._

At first, the stories need for him to grow accustomed to them. Memories in some places are faint, and from Merlin's perspective, far different from how he remembers. What's obvious is that Merlin believed him to be an utter prat.

Arthur takes offense at first, lips pulling into a stubborn frown.

He hadn't been that bad; Merlin was _exaggerating_ as he had a tendency to do so.

Then, the story hits the moment that changed it all. The first moment when Merlin had gotten in the way of the blade, had saved Arthur's life. The first of many, as it seems. But by magic. He isn't sure how long he ends up reading; Arthur's swept into the words and the memories.

His first surprise acknowledges the Great Dragon.

Merlin had been drawn to him—_Kilgharrah_, the beast had a name—and had been drawn to the caves to seek council with him. To speak to a _dragon_.

Arthur's tempted to call Merlin back, demand he explains himself, but instead he keeps reading. The Great Dragon had been the one who told Merlin of his destiny. A destiny that involved he and Merlin from the start.

Destiny had been a constant subject, but now it seems there's been more.

Lancelot, and the trials involving their meeting (A gryffin—honestly, Merlin). Soon enough, the focus directs to a certain meeting, one he has not forgotten.

_Mordred._

The gilded tome shuts quickly against Arthur's fingers still curled within the pages.

He remembers the betrayal of Morgana in attempt to save the boy, and his own protests to see an innocent child die. He had only seen this as Morgana's kindness, her caring nature that in the end had been diminished to ashes until her last days.

Arthur reopens it, ignoring the stab of reluctance in his chest, flipping another page.

The Great Dragon mentioned again, and this time a prophecy is spoken that chills him.

The dragon claimed that Mordred would be the one to kill Arthur, and that Merlin should not save the boy. That's why Merlin had been late to meet them in the dungeon. He had been _conflicted_.

Even then, their fate had been sealed. _He_ – Arthur – had sealed his own fate.

After a moment of consideration, Arthur does not chuck the tome away. He continues to read, the heaviness consuming him.

**.**

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**TBC...**

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><p><em>Here we are again - back to updates! Thanks for waiting so patiently... I ended up getting really sick in the last week, so it'll be great to hear from you guys! :)<em>


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